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A Story of the Primrose Way, 


BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 


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NOW EEADY-A NEW BOOK 

By Mary E. Brian, auto of “Manet 

“THE BAYOU BRIDE.” 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price $1.00 

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VALENTINE STRANGE 


A STORY OF THE PRIMROSE WAY. 


BY 

DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street. 


DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY’S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


PRICK, 

NO. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea ^ 

196 “ The Way of the World” ^ 

820’ A Bit of Human Nature . . • . . 10 

861 Rainbow Gold 

691 Valentine Strange ^ 


■PS, 

VALENTINE STRANGE. 

P' * 

CHAPTER L 

HIRAM SEARCH. 


A dusty, hilly road wound up and down, here in broad 
light, there in deep shadow. It was a sweltering English 
* summer day, and there was no wind; but a dry quiver was 
in the air at times, as though the parched earth panted. 
The birds chirped in feeble enjoyment of the drowsy heat,, 
and the grasshopper shrilled incessantly from cool and 
tangled grasses. A lame traveler came toiling up a stiffish 
slope in the lane, bearing a bundle on his shoulder. The 
bundle, which was bare and scanty, was slung on a walking- 
stick with a crook at the end of it. Arrived at the top of 
the slope, the lame traveler sat down in shadow on a smooth 
table of rock which cropped out beneath an elder-bush. 
He was lank in build, and sallow in complexion. His nose 
and his beard were each long and pointed, his cheek-bones, 
were prominent, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes as bright 
as a hawk’s. The stone on which he sat was in an English 
lane, and a true English landscape smiled and dozed around 
him; but he, though dressed in a commonplace English 
costume, was evidently foreign to the scene. In age he 
might have been anything from five-and-twenty to five- 
and-thirty. 

The seat he had taken being a low one, and his figure tall 
and gaunt, his r knees were ungracefully prominent. He sat in 
an attitude of great fatigue, his head drooping, and his arms: 
hanging loose at his sides. After a time, he shook off this 
broken look, and began to explore his waistcoat pockets 
with an aspect of anxiety. A smile crossed his features; 
and between finger and thumb he drew out a very little bit 
of twist tobacco. This he shredded with an enormous, 
pocket-knife, and packed carefully into the bowl of a well- 
blacked clay pipe. Then, with a renewed look of anxiety ,, 


6 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


he made another search in his waistcoat pockets; and again 
* he smiled as he drew forth a single lucifer-match. Balanc- 
ing this between his finger and thumb, and regarding it as 
though it were in some sort a curiosity, he opened his lips 
and broke into speech. 

“I dew not think,” he said, in slow distinct and nasal 
tones, “ as there was ever anybody in my family as was 
gifted with mi-racklous powers. The professed spiritualist 
is not an animal I feel called upon to admire. But if I am 
not an unwillin* medium, there never was, an* never will be, 
sech a phenomenon on the face of the universal globe. 
There ain*t a breath of air stirrin* at this minute; but this 
is the last lucifer-match I have, an* I*ve on*y got to strike 
it to raise some gentle zephyr thatTl just come round the 
one corner that ain*t guarded an* blow it out. Now, that*s 
a remarkable fact, an* illustraytive of my general luck. 
An* if anybody was to be here, an* I was to bet on the 
zephyr, the atmosphere would lie in dead stillness till this 
match had burned clean through, an* then most likely it*d 
blow a tornado just to rile me.** He spoke with a look 
and voice of weary gravity. “ This old country ain*t so 
thick crowded as I used to fancy; or if it is, it*s my luck 
that drives the people off any road I happen to be trav- 
elin*. If this lucifer don*t strike, or if it blows out, or the 
pipe won*t draw, I sha*n*t see a human creetur* for ten mile. 
If by any chancel get a light, I. shall probTy find a boxful 
on the road, immediately after. Ay, ay. Things re*ly 
air contrairy.** 

He made grimly elaborate preparations for lighting the 
match. He took off his broad-brimmed felt hat, laid it 
above his knees, and drew himself back upon the stone 
until the hat and his legs made a little cave of safety for 
the lucifer. Then he rubbed the end of the match gently 
on a bit of roughened stone, and smiled to see the flame. 
He gave an anticipatory pull at his pipe, smiled again, 
bent above the light, and pulled gently till flame and to- 
bacco just kissed each other. Then came disaster. 

If the weary traveler had turned his head, he might have 
seen through the parted boughs of the elder-bush a sun- 
tanned healthy face with a pair of honest gray eyes alive 
with fun. A young man clad in a suit of dark tweed lay 
with his elbows on the grass, with his chin supported on his 
hands. The band of his hat was stuck full of flies, and a 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


7 


disjointed fishing rod lay on the grass beside him. The 
strap of his creel pulling tightly af his shoulder, seemed to 
indicate prosperity in sport. Close to his sun-tanned cheek 
were the hairy face, black muzzle, and glittering eye of a 
broken-haired terrier. The dog's hind-legs quivered with 
readiness to obey an expected order, and his black nose 
wrinkled and his eyes glittered as if he understood the 
coming mischief. At the critical second recorded, the 
young man slightly raised his head and gave an almost im- 
perceptible wave of the right hand. With a bark and a 
leap the terrier flew through the hedge, and lighting on 
the traveler's shoulders for the fraction of a second, bounded 
over his head, twisted himself round and barked himself 
backward along the dusty road, recoiling at each explosion 
like a canine cannon. The traveler dropped the extin- 
guished match and reached out in sudden anger for a 
stone. Before his hand had secured the missile, he drew it 
back again. “ 'Taint no use throwin' stones at Destiny," 
he said, resignedly. “ I might ha' been prepared for it. 
I'd rather it had been the gentle zephyr, though, because 
then I might ha' took credit for bein' a prophet. But even 
that consolation 'd be tew much for a man like me to look 
for." 

The unseen auditor was grave, as if his jest had failed. 
There was even a slight look of shame upon his face. 

“I meant to ha' made that smoke do for dinner," 
soliloquized the traveler, mournfully. He turned to one 
side and untied the lean bundle. “ Iiidicalous small sum of 
money twopence is, ain't it? An' a ridicalous small amount 
o' bread an' cheese it buys. Wal, Hiram, you played the 
prodigal; an' I reckon you'll ha' to come down to the 
swine-husks yet. Hand 'em in at once; I'm game for 'em. 
I'm holler enough to be ready to fill up with nigh a'most- 
anythin'. Hello! Air you hungry?" 

This query was addressed to the dog, who finding himself 
in safety, had at first sat down to bark in comfort; and now 
seeing the bundle open, crossed over to the traveler with 
something of the air of a friend dropping in casually to 
dine. The man broke off a small — a very small piece of 
bread and offered it. The terrier walked round it, sniffed 
at it, winked at it with both eyes, then gravely seating him- 
self in the dust, yawned and looked into space with a mighty 
pretense of not having seen the proffered bread at all, and 


8 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


of being there quite accidentally for some altogether dif- 
ferent end. 

“No,” said the traveler, deliberately masticating the re- 
jected morsel; c< you air not hungry. W hen you air, you 11 
know better’n turn your nose up at dry bread. An* 1 11 
tell you what ’tis, my ca-nine friend, I hope you never may ' 
be. Hunger’s a cruel thing for man or beast to suffer 
a real cruel thing it is. If you’d the brains to have the 
heart, you’d be nigh on cryin’ to see a citizen of the Great 
Republic takin’ his last meal with a hundred an’ fifty ' 
miles afore him, an’ blank starvation at the end of it. 
Coin’, are you? Wal, good-bye. I s’pose my conversation’s 
kind o’ dull to a prosperous dog like you.” 

The deg saw what the traveler did not see; he saw his 
master rise noiselessly behind the hedge and slouch along 
behind it with wary footsteps; and he followed. The young 
man shook a warning finger at the terrier; and he, compre- 
hending the sign, went quietly in his master’s train. By 
and by the young man, being out of ear-shot of the lame 
traveler, began to run; and the dog still kept at his heels. 
Reaching a stile, the master halted there, and kneeling in 
the grass, beckoned the dog to him. Then detaching a 
joint of the fishing-rod from the bundle, he motioned the 
terrier to take it. “ Home, at once!” he said, with a warn- 
ing finger raised once more. With a wag of the tail, the 
dog took the slender joint between his teeth and trotted 
gravely toward a lofty white house which stotfd upon the 
slope of a hill a mile away. The dog’s master sat down upon 
the stile, and drawing from his pocket a well-stocked cigar- 
case, he began to smoke. The cigar-case bore a monogram 
and a crest; and its owner, though plainly attired, looked 
like an English gentleman from head to heel. His broad 
shoulders and deep chest gave indications of physical 
strength and soundness, and his tanned cheeks were ruddy 
with health. His face was not remarkably handsome, but 
he was good-looking enough to pass in a crowd; and liis 
bronzed hand swept now and again over a mustache which 
gave character and manliness to his countenance. The car- 
riage of the head was perhaps a trifle haughty; but he was - 
an only son, and was accustomed to having his own way. 
That circumstance may have helped to decide the fashion 
in which he should carry his head on his shoulders. His 
figure was almost perfect in its combination of strength 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


9 


and grace, and there was that exquisitely clean and healthy 
look about him which is the especial attribute of the well- 
bred British man. When the lame traveler, having finished 
his scanty meal, came limping down the lane with the lean 
bundle still over his shoulder, he caught sight of the figure 
a hundred yards away, and scanned him with keen eyes. 

“ Old country," he said to himself voicelessly, “ boasts' 
of a likely-lookin* sort o* people. Clean grit all through, 
some on *em, an* lots of it, but no lumber. Now, that*s a 
lord o* the sile, I reckon. Looks born to order other folks 
around while he slides along easy.** Then he caught sight 
of the cigar. “ Guess 1*11 come on him for a light,** lie 
said; and his lank hand sought the pocket in which his 
pipe reposed. “No,** he continued in an irresolute voice; 
“ can*t ventur* on that bit o* consolation yet. I shall ha* 
to keep that for supper; but I may as well get a light, 
though.** He limped on with one gaunt arm jerking at. 
his side, and with his scanty bundle held on the crooked 
stick over his shoulder. “ No,** he said again as he drew 
nearer; “ I can*t afford to have the weight of a fusee on 
my mind for the next three houis; I should have it cryin** 
out at me every step, an* I should be fightin* not to smoke 
all the way. I*ve got to keep that pipe for supper. It*s all 
the supper I shall have, an* that*s a fact. ** Drawing near 
the stranger he flung him a “ Good afternoon,** which 
sounded discourteous and aggressive. 

“ Good-afternoon,** said the stranger in a round cheery 
voice. “ Going on to Brierham?** 

“ If that*s the next town on this road,** said the lame 
traveler, “I*m goin* there.** 

“Yes,** said the young Englishman, rising and walking 
into the dusty road; “ it*s the next town.** 

“ Can you tell me how fur *tis?** asked the traveler. 

“About nine miles,** returned the other. “If you are 
willing to earn a few shillings I will ask you to take a note 
forme. ** 

“ I guess,** responded the traveler, “ I*m game to do & 
good deal for a half a dollar. ** 

“Hard up?** asked the young man carelessly. 

It was not insolently meant; but the other fired at it. 
He cooled again, or restrained himself, and answered: “I 
am willin* to sell any service 1 can render to anybody who 
can pay me.** 


10 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ Wait a minute, then,” said the stranger; and drawing 
a note-book from his breast-pocket, he wrote a few lines 
upon one of its pages, penciling the letters with apparently 
minute care. Then tearing out the leaf, he folded it, and 
wrote an address upon it: “ Ask for Mr. Valentine Strange 
at the Manor House. Anybody will direct you. And this 
will pay you for your trouble. ” He drew out a purse as 
he spoke, and made a feint of being disappointed as he 
looked into it. “ I've nothing but gold,” he said. “ Well, 
there you are. You don't earn half-a-sovereign so easily 
every day, I suppose?” 

The traveler took the coin, and answered simply: “If 
you'll say how much of this I am to keep, I'll hand over 
the balance at the other end.” 

“Oh,” said the other, carelessly, “keep the lot.” 

“Wal,” said the traveler, pocketing the coin with un- 
changed visage, “ I s'pose you can afford it. It's the first 
wind o' good fortune as has blowed my way for many's a 
day, an' that's a fact. I can't give you a permanent ad- 
dress to write to just at present; but if ever you happen to 
be in want of a good turn, you've on'y got to find me, an’ 
I'll spend my last dollar to serve you. ” 

“ That's very good of you,” said the young Englishman, 
with a twinkle in his eyes. “ You're an American, I 
think?” 

“ Yes,” said the traveler, drawling on the word; and 
added “ Sir,” as though that were an afterthought, not of 
respect, but of added affirmation. 

“ There are not many Americans who think it worth 
while to try their fortunes in the old country." 

“No,” said the lame traveler, with great dryness. “ They 
air a sensible people, as a rule.” 

The other laughed. 

“You don't seem to be favorably impressed with Eng- 
land. ” 

, “ It's fairish,” said the traveler, “what there is of it. 
But I'll say this about your country — mister — it's the wust 
country in the hull globe to be poor in.” 

“Have you been poor in many countries?” asked the 
gentleman lightly. 

“ A few,” said the traveler grimly. “ It might be — I 
don't know as it will be — but it might be satisfactory to 
you to know — ” 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 11 

“ You’ll deliver the note, won’t you ?” said the English- 
man^ half turning away. 

“Wait a minute, mister. It might be satisfactory (a 
you to know that you’re the man that’s turned my fortune. 
You might like to know it, if you hear o’ me again. An*' 
if ever you get in a real corner, you might do worse than 
ask Providence to furnish a mo-ment’ry interview witlr 
Hiram Search. That’s me. I ain’t a lot to look at; but 
if ever you’re cornered, you ask to see me.” 

“You are really very good,” said the Englishman with 
a satire too grave for the other’s comprehension — “You 
won’t forget the note, will you? Good afternoon.” 

They parted, and went their separate ways; the English- 
man sauntering blithely with rod and well-filled creel; the 
American limping stolidly under a burden which, pitifully 
light as it was, seemed almost too heavy for him. A score 
of times as he went Hiram Search drew out the half-sover- 
eign from his pocket, and having gazed at it, returned it. 
A hundred times he felt carefully with thumb and finger, 
to make sure that it had not been spirited away. 

“I’ll make a stroke with you, my beauty,” said Hiram, 
standing still to contemplate the coin; after which he put. 
the half-sovereign back into his pocket, and went on, with 
one gaunt leg limping and one gaunt arm jerking until 
again the desire to realize the possession of good fortune 
came upon him. Then the coin came out once more, and 
Hiram stood still to admire it. “It’s like the fairy’s tent 
Uncle Josh used to read to us about out of * Arabian 
Eights.’ You kin pack it in a nutshell, an’ it’ll spread 
into board an’ lodgin’ over a hunderd an’ fifty mile. 
Money’s a great idea. Saves kerryin’ about a house along 
with you. It’s plaster for a sore foot, an’ food to your 
empty stomach, an’ comfort all over. I could fight a wag- 
in-load of such fellers as I was an hour ago. When I 
think o’ that poor creetur settin’ down to his last hunk o’ 
bread a mile or tew back, I feel like a manumitted nigger 
lookin’ at a mean white, an’ longin’ to kick him out o’ pure 
contempt.” 

With this jubilant statement Hiram put the coin away 
finally, and jerked along until, bent nearly double with fa- 
tigue and pain, he reached the town, and inquired for the 
Manor House. It was a mile beyond the town, said the 
man he questioned. Hiram groaned in spirit; but he 


12 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


buckled loyally to his task, and went on. Evening was 
merging slowly into night, but a street lamp shed its rays 
upon a stone column beside a gate-way, and on the column 
he read in graven letters “The Manor House. ” He passed 
through the gate-way into darkness, and walked painfully 
along a graveled drive. “To see how lonely aiT re-tired 
the big folks live in this small island,” said Hiram con- 
templatively, “ you might think as hull prairies could be 
had for askin'.” The drive was nearly a quarter of a mile 
in length; but the lame traveler went pi uckily along it, and 
at last halted before a grim-looking old house of dark 
stone. There was not a light visible; and Hiram searched 
for the bell-handle in some misgiving lest the place should 
prove empty. The peal he rang sounded solitary and fu- 
nereal, but it brought an immediate answer. The footman 
looked down on Hiram Search and his bundle with one 
glance of swift disdain and closed the door in his face. 
Hiram took the bell-handle in his lean fingers and pulled 
as though. he were sounding an alarm of fire. 

The footman returned indignant. “ Wotter yer a-makin' 
that row for?” he demanded. 

It sounded like a foreign tongue to the American. Hi- 
ram looked, and beheld the scoff and scorn of his own peo- 
ple — a flunky. He had never before seen one so near at 
hand. The footman was a gorgeous creature, crimson- 
plush and silk stocking as to his lower-man, sky-blue and 
white-powdered in his higher parts. He planted a trim 
shoe, with a bulbous ankle and a slim calf above it, on the 
door-step, and surveyed the poor traveler with an ineffable 
lordly disdain. 

“AVhen you re-quire to know what a man wants,” said 
Hiram gravely, “ it's a roundabout way to shut the door 
on him. You should find out first, aiT shut the door 
after.” 

“I can't stend 'eah all night,” returned the footman 
with such an assumption of the fine-gentleman accent as he 
could compass. “ Wottoh yar want?” 

“ Young man,” said Hiram severely, “ your clothes air 
tew many for you. You are not Lord-Justice an' Chief 
Gold-stick in Waitin' — yet.” 

“ Wotter yer want?” cried the footman, angrily relapsing 
into the tone of his native Hammersmith. 

“I dew not want a po-lite male help,” returned Hiram 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


13 


with aggravating slowness of nasal delivery; “ an' when I 
dew — if ever I dew — this is not the store I shall apply at. " 
The footman gazed into the darkness over Hiram's head, 
and stood there as if impervious to the sharpest shaft of 
satire. “Take that into your master, you — you gilded 
menial!" quoth the lame traveler, as he produced the note. 

“Hany hanswer?" asked the gilded menial with sublime 
contempt. He hoped inwardly that this queer person 
might be a begging-letter-writer, and that it might be his 
own happy lot to see him off the premises. 

“Ask your master, you po-matumed slave!" returned 
the messenger. Hiram's republican gorge rose at the 
mere notion of a flunky. He knew that there was no 
great probability of an answer being intrusted to his keep- 
ing; but it was something for the free citizen of an enlight- 
ened republic to triumph over this remnant of the enslaved 
ages in a darkened monarchical realm, even so far as to 
make him come to the door again. 

“ Wait there," said the footman, in his lordliest tones. 
He made as if to close the door; but the lame traveler 
thrust in his bundle. 

“ Shut that door again afore you've done my arrand, you 
poor clothes-hoss," said Hiram, “ an' I'll ring the bell off 
the handle." 

“Hoskins," said a voice from the hall, “what's the 
matter there?" 

“ Pusson with a note, sir," said the footman, with a sud- 
den change of tone. 

Hiram looked round the figure of the footman, and saw 
standing in the hall a gentleman who carried a billiard-cue 
in his hand. He had discarded coat and waistcoat, and 
stood in a spotless white shirt, with one brilliant stud 
sparkling in the breast of it. Close-cut, well-groomed 
hair, with a reddish tinge in it; eyebrows and mustache a 
shade darker; forehead high and smooth; outline of the 
face an almost perfect oval. Eyes large, dark-gray* and 
luminous. Nose, mouth, and chin a trifle womanish, but 
finely modeled. These details the lame traveler's hawk- 
like eyes took in at a single glance. 

“Gentleman," said Hiram to himself. “British breed. 
Strength, delicacy, an' stayin' power." These criticisms 
related to physique only. Hiram made no pretense to an 
ability to read character in that off-hand fashion; but he 


14 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


was an intense and therefore a ready admirer of British 
physical development. 

“Pusson with a note, sir,” said the footman. 

For whom?” asked the gentleman. 

darkness^* 116 Strange ’ Es -q uire /' said Hiram from the 

“Come in,” said the gentleman; and Hiram entered, 
limping and jerking in his gait, dusty and worn out with 
travel. “Where is the note? Who sends it?” 

“Your po-lite menial has the note,” slinging his bundle 
to his shoulder again. 

r Ehe footman had hastily seized a salver and placed the 
little missive upon it. 

1 he gentleman took the note, opened it, surveyed Hiram 
bearch the while, then read it a little slowly and with a 
puzzled look. Having read it, he glanced at Hiram with 
an inquiring smile, glanced through the note again, and 
looked once more at Hiram. The note was in English, but 
written m Greek characters, and ran thus: 

“Dear Val — I have nothing to say; but I wanted to 
give the queer fish who carries this something to do to ex- 
cuse charity. Let me know if you receive it. Yours, 

“ Gerard Lumby.” 

“Come this way,” said Valentine Search; and Hiram, 
limping and jerking gauntly, followed into a billiard-room 
there sat a diminutive man with a bald head, smoking a 
cigar which looked too large for him. The diminutive 
man looked up and glanced from one to the other. Hiram 
with his bundle on its stick over his shoulder, returned his 
regard. The diminutive man had a merry face, which 
looked at once old and young. Either he was not yet old 
enough to have grown a beard or was clean shaven— a 
matter not easily decided at a cursory glance. His head 
shone like a billiard-ball, and below the baldness lav the 
slightest ring of light hair, which he smoothed with liis 
right hand as he surveyed Hiram, and then looked inquir- 
lngly at Strange. ^ 

house Vh6re did y ° U get thiS n ° te? ” asked the master of the 
“ Somewheer Tout five hunderd mile back, countin’ bv 
a lame man s measure,” responded Hiram. « You might 
call it ten. 5 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


15 


“ When did you get it?” 

“ This afternoon,” Hiram answered, “ four hours ago.” 

“ You look tired,” said his interlocutor. 

“Appearances,” returned Hiram, “air not always de- 
ceptive. ” His long face was pallid with fatigue and hun- 
ger. He could scarcely draw himself upright to assert his 
manhood. - 

“ Where are you going?” 

“ London,” he answered briefly. 

“Were you paid for bringing this note?” Strange asked. 

“I was so,” returned the messenger. 

“What are you? Have you a trade?” 

“Compositor, Clerk, Auctioneer, Smith, Builder, Cab- 
inet-maker. I ain't partickler.” 

“It seems not. You're an American, of course?” 

“I am so,” said Hiram. 

“ Well,” said Strange, regarding him with a comic seri- 
ousness, “this is a very important document indeed. Had 
it been intrusted to careless hands, I dare scarcely guess 
what terrible consequences might have come about. You 
have proved a trusty messenger, and you deserve to be re- 
warded. There's an extra half crown for you. ” 

Hiram solemnly pouched the coin, and spoke in turn. 
“ Look here, mister. If you don't mind, I want to ask a 
question. Who wrote that note?” 

“ Why do you want to know?” asked Strange. 

“ Wal,” said Hiram, shifting his bundle and lifting his 
lame foot to ease it, “so fur as I know, I ain't super- 
stitious, but I dew believe in luck. The man that wrote 
that note brought the first streak of luck I've had sence I 
landed in this country. Now, you've widened the streak — 
not much; but you've widened it, an' I'm thankful for it. 
From this out, I'm bound to prosper. Things like this 
don't happen for nothin', I guess. Now, I want to know 
the name o' the man that did me this good turn. If it's 
all the same to you, mister, I should like to know it.” 

“ There you are,” said Strange, laughing mischievously. 
He laid the note on the edge of the billiard-table, and 
pointed with his little finger to the signature, which, like 
the rest of the brief epistle, was in Greek characters. To 
his surprise, the gaunt Yankee leaning over it evinced no 
dismay or wonder, but spelled it out, with a rugged finger 
following it letter by letter. 


16 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“Gerard Lumby,” lie said quietly ta himself, and re- 
peated the name once or twice — “ Gerard Lumby. Thank 
you, mister. I sha*n*t forget.” 

“ Ah!” said Strange, still smiling, “ you read Greek, do 
you? Did you master the contents of this important state 
document by the way?” 

“ There*s your coin, colonel,” said Hiram, throwing the 
half-crown on to the green cloth of the table. His sallow 
features flushed, and his keen eyes glittered with anger. 
He drew himself to his full height, and wheeling round, he 
walked from the room without a limp. “ Here, you flunky !** 
he called out in the hall, “ let me out o* this, d*ye hear!” 

The majestic Hoskins strolled slowly to the door and 
opened it. 

“ You an* your master,” said the indignant Hiram, paus- 
ing in the door-way, “ air a pair.” 

The flunky smiled, thinking his own wounded honor 
avenged. 

“ I was always inclined to wonder, up till now, how it 
came about that a man an* a Britisher could bear to have 
such a creatur* as a flunky foolin* round at all. But I 
guess there*s a spice of the flunky in the Britisher himself, 
when all*s told, an* mebbe that*s the reason!** 

Hoskins slammed the door upon his heels and retired 
with dignity. Valentine Strange took up the coin from 
the billiard-cloth, and threw it away at angry random. It 
passed through the door- way of the room, struck a door 
opposite, and rolled with a clear silver tinkle down the 
mosaic floor of the hall. Strange laughed constrainedly. 

“I think,” said the bald-headed man, removing his 
cigar to make way for the observation — “I think the 
Yankee scored.” 


CHAPTER II. 

“THE BLIND BOW-BOY*S BUTT-SHAFT.” 

On the western coast of England, there is a narrow bay 
which is bounded on each side by a headland of igneous 
rock. The smaller and more northerly headland is locally 
known as Baffin Head; and the larger headland on the 
southern side of the bay is called Welbeck Head. For some 
half mile, Welbeck Head runs gently up from the main- 
land, its grass growing sparser, and its prehistoric old 


YALEKTINE STBANGE. 


17 


bones declaring themselves more plainly, until you come 
upon broken rocks with no other covering than lichen, and 
then go on by paths which increase in difficulty for another 
half mile. There, suddenly, you reach a bit of seeming 
fairy-land— Welbeck Hollow. A carpet of green turf, soft 
and "fine, is belted by trees; and above the topmost branches 
rise the veritable bones of old earth, lichen-spotted and 
hoary with rain and sunshine — the rain and sunshine of 
thousands of years. In the center of the grassy space is 
one great isolated rock; the tombstone, as the country 
legends tell, of a beautiful young princess buried there by 
a cruel magician. The perennial tears of the beautiful 
princess flow from the southern side of this vast bowlder 
in a sparkling stream, which brawls inland for a mile, and 
then returning, ends its brief life in salt water. 

Beyond the Hollow, the Head grows precipitate and even 
terrible. It is tall enough to bathe its hoary forehead now 
and then in storm, and can push a bare defiant scalp at 
the very thunders. It rises like a wall on the seaward side, 
and overhangs a little, as though it threatened to tumble 
headlong. Nervous tourists keep clear of its edge; and 
even strong-headed people, tempted to lie prone there and 
venture one look sheer down to the wrinkled sea, have con- 
fessed to something of a thrill of fear. 

On its southerly side the Head has neither terrors nor 
splendors. It slopes quietly to the mainland meadows, and 
bears on its wide bosom a pleasant park and a quiet coun- 
try mansion. This quiet country mansion is called “Lumby 
Hall;” and men, women, and children bearing the name of 
Lumby have lived there almost from time immemorial. 
The Lumbys were always a solid household, reverencing 
the wisdom of our ancestors, and believing blood to be 
thicker than water. They were a quiet and inoffensive 
people; but they were known to be hard and implacable in 
enmity. If you had a Lumby for a friend — all the Lumbys 
were proud of this, and made it an honorable tradition, to 
be maintained at all hazards — you had a friend who would 
stick by you like a brother. But if you had a Lumby for 
an enemy — the Lumbys were proud of this also, and made 
an honorable tradition of it — you had to face an enemy not 
to be appeased or conciliated; a man relentless, unreason- 
ing, who hated you root and branch, you and yours to the 
ninety-ninth relationship. 


18 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


The elder Lumby had inherited this nature, and had 
transmitted it to his son. They both took a pride in it 
and were pleased to think that it was English. ‘ That was 

the old Lumby s sacred shibboleth. If the ‘‘Standard ” 

he was a stanch Conservative— told him that a thing was un- 
-ftnglisn, lie voted against it in the House of Commons, in 
whose collective wisdom he furnished a unit. He liked 
good old English sports and pastimes; and without having 
a gram of vulgar cruelty in his nature, he would have wel- 
comed the return of cock-sliying, and bull-baiting, simply 
because those sports were old-fashioned, and had once been 
popular m this island. He mourned over the gradual evan- 
lshment of the good old English penal laws; he drank un- 
wittingly much good old English port. That, he believed, 
had a continental origin, and it was one of the few things 
he did not disdain on that account. He was not in the di- 
rect line of the good old county house whose name he 
bore, but had inherited the estates from a childish uncle. 

I lie city Lumbys, of whom he was the head, had always been 
a little despised by the county Lumbys; but the county 
umbys had died out, and the city branch ruled in their 
stead. Mr Lumby had gradually released himself from 
the tods of labor; and though he would not accept the 
position of a sleeping partner, he had exercised of late years 
but little supervision over the doings of the firm, and was 
not much more than its nominal head, except that he drew 
the lion s share of its profits. 

Gerard Lumby the younger, with whom this history has 
much to do, was cut by nature on the lines of the paternal 
pattern; but the world being thirty years older when he 
came into it than it had been at his father’s birth, his 
social and political conservatisms were of a milder type 
He walked homeward with the Yankee’s odd-sounding name 
ln . Y* s smiled to think of the quaint earnestness 

with which the fellow had promised help in any day of 
need, taking the way by the lane, the youth whistled as 
he went, out of mere jollity and youth. By and by he was * 
met by an open carriage, drawn by two handsome chest- 
nuts, driven by a fat coachman of rubicund countenance 
who wore an exceedingly crisp and curly wig. The lane 
was so confined, that Gerard had either to retreat, or to . 
mount a bank on side or another. He chose the readier 
alternative; and laying his disjointed rod on the grass, lie 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


19 


leaped upon the mound, caught a sturdy overhanging aslx 
branch, and waited for the carriage to go by. From this; 
height of vantage, he saw that it had one occupant, a lady, 
who carried a sunshade, and carried it in such a position 
that her face was hidden. 

Now, Gerard knew, or supposed he knew, everybody 
who kept a carriage within ten miles; but this equipage 
Avas strange to him. A thing of that sort is a matter of 
interest in the country, and he wondered who the lady 
might be. She, while yet a dozen yards away, saw from 
beneath her sunshade one of Gerard's feet swinging 
clear of the mound, in readiness to drop when the 
carriage should have passed; and coming out of the 
pretty silken shelter to see to whom the foot belonged, 
herself became visible. The average of beauty in these 
favored islands is high, and Gerard had seen pretty 
faces in plenty. People who live in the west of England 
need not travel far to look for feminine charms; but Gerard 
had never seen anything to approach this new vision. 
She was charmingly dressed, but somewhat quaintly, and 
she wore a profusion of lace. So much Gerard could have 
told you, and no more, for he was as ignorant of millinery 
as I am. Her face was beautiful, and not with any merely 
common type of loveliness, but with that soft yet haughty 
splendor which belongs alone to some few Englishwomen, 
and is at once loftier and more charming than any form the 
Greeks have left us. Millais might have painted it, and 
made himself twice immortal; but no mere marble could 
have carried more than half its charm. 

The lady at a guess might be twenty. Gerard was five- 
and-twenty. The unknown beauty shot one shaft at him 
in passing, and sent it barbed with a smile. A queenly 
little inclination of the head acknowledged the trouble the 
passing carriage gave him. Off came Gerard's hat in a 
moment, leaving his crisp curled hair and frank forehead 
open to the view. With one foot planted on the grassy 
bank, and the other swinging loose, the strong brown left 
hand stretched freely out to grasp the bough — the attitude 
was as graceful as that of Mercury new lighted. The 
young lady's eyes regarded him with demure admiration 
for a second, and then she hid herself with her sunshade, 
and the sun seemed shaded from Gerard's eyes. 

It is very natural for a young man. of five-and-twenty to 


20 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


fall in love; and it is in accordance with the decrees of 
Nature that some of them should do it suddenly, without pre- 
science, premonition, or warning, and indeed in barefaced 
defiance of all likelihood. The ways of falling in love are 
as various as the natures of men and women. Some, of 
the critical, cautious, and unimaginative sort, are inclined 
to set down love at first sight as a figment of the poet's 
and the novelist's invention. But there is an actual mo- 
ment of time — if it could only be caught — at which any- 
thing has its beginning; and though I, for one, have not 
much faith in the raptures of passion which take rise at a 
single glance, I nevertheless have seen enough of love and 
lovers to believe that even one glance may slay all chances 
of bachelorhood and spinsterhood in a pair of youthful 
lives. Here it was not two but one that fell, and even he 
did not now begin to guess that he was wounded. 

Our youthful Gerard was not much of a hand at the 
poets and fictionists; and being hit with “ the blind bow- 
boy's butt-shaft," took to wondering what was the matter. 
Had he been given to verse-making, he might have gone 
home to write a sonnet about his vision, and so have 
fanned love's little flame into a premature fire, which 
should have died for want of fuel. As it was, he took up 
his rod, and sauntered along the lane with the beautiful 
face before him, not consciously or intentionally recalling 
it, yet renewing his passing glimpse of it again and again, 
almost as if by actual sight. The queenly head just bent 
a little, the lovely face smiling, the violet eyes turned up- 
ward, [still holding him in sight while the head bowed — 
My poor Gerard, you are a smitten man. And who 
amongst us, from whose “ topmost head the thickest hazel 
dies," would not have changed places with you, if it were 
but for a month or two, an hour or two, a mere five min- ^ 
utes, to be young again, and once again in love? 

So Gerard strode home, and the beautiful face bore him 
company. The broken-haired terrier hailed him with a 
voice of joy, and careered about him in wild circles; but 
meeting with no response to outspoken affection followed 
disconsolately at a distance with his moist tail between his 
legs. Through the gates, with their crumbling pillars of 
gray stone bearing the Lumby arms, along the shady ave- 
nue, and across the trim-kept lawn, the beautiful face bore . 
Gerard company. He sat down, and smoked a pipe in its 


VALENTINE STRAKGE. 


21 


society; but feeling, somehow, a little restless, he arose, and 
with no definite idea of action, strolled round to the stables. 

“ Gerard!” cried a pleasant, girlish voice; and the young 
man turning, saw a pretty sight — a young lady, namely, of 
some eighteen years, fresh and bright and happy, with a 
face in which innocence and piquancy charmingly blended. 

“Well, Milly?” said Gerard. 

“We have had visitors this afternoon whilst you were 
away,” she said. “Guess who they were.” 

“Who were they?” asked Gerard, languidly, trying to 
get up a show of interest. 

“ Guess,” she said! 

Gerard, with his hands in his pockets, his hat drooping 
over one eye, and his pipe stuck in one corner of his mouth, 
looked like a protest against intellectual effort. But he 
responded gallantly to the challenge: “ Val Strange.” 

“No.” 

“ Then I give it up,” said lazy Gerard. 

“ Guess again.” 

“ Milly,” said Gerard, appealingly, “ don't you think it's 
too hot for guesswork? Who was it?” 

“ Our new neighbors,” said Milly, nodding gayly. “ Mr. 
Jolly and his daughter. And, 0 Gerard, I think she's the 
most beautiful girl I ever saw! And she wore such lovely 
lace! — " Gerard flushed a little. “ And Mr. Jolly,” pur- 
sued Milly, with great vivacity, “is a little man with a face 
like a Normandy pippin — brown and shriveled, you know. 
And they're going to give a big dinner and a ball, and 
we're all invited!” 

“ Great news, eh, Milly?” said Gerard. 

“And,” said Milly, in breathless pursuit of her theme, 
“ they have such a coachman, Gerard, in such a wig, and a 
wonderful port- wine face, like an old-fashioned vintner; 
and I'm sorry you missed them, for they have only been 
gone an hour. ” 

Gerard had begun to put things together. Yet what had 
he to blush for? “I met a young lady in a carriage just 
now,” he said; “but she. was alone.” 

“ Oh,” said Milly, “ Mr. Jolly came on horseback. He 
is an old friend of the Mortons, and has gone to Baffin 
Head to see the General. ” 

“M— m,” said Gerard, blushing again, through all his 
assumption of indifference. “ Carriage I met was a landau. 


22 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Pair of chestnuts* very handsome horses. Very fat coach- 
man. Rather a pretty girl inside. ” 

Gerard!” cried Milly* “what a shame to call her 
‘ rather pretty. ' She's beautiful. I never saw anvbody 
half so lovely* even in a picture.” 

“ Perhaps*” said Gerard* making much pretense of 
cleaning the stem of his pipe with a stalk of grass — “per- 
haps I saw some other young woman.” 

“ ‘ Young woman * indeed! Why* you know everybody 
else for miles.” Ladies fire those quaint conversational 
double-shots at times. “ And Pm sure if I were a man* I 
should have fallen in love with her at first sight.” 

“But* being a young woman*” said Gerard* repeating 
the obnoxious phrase* “ your notions of manly conduct are 
not valuable.” 

“ Perhaps not*” said Milly. “ But I wish you had been 
here to meet them. ” 

“ 1 sha11 ^e them at the feed*” said Gerard* still very 
busy with his^ pipe and turning more than half away 
from Milly. What had he to blush for? It made him al- 
most angry with himself that he should be so foolish. 

“ All you Oxford men are vulgar*” said Milly with de- 
cision. “ You speak of a dinner as though you were 
hoi ses. "i ou call a ball a e hop*'?, and you talk of money 
as ‘ rhino 9 and the ‘stumpy.* I wouldn't talk slang if I 
were a man. ” 

“ But being a young woman*” said Gerard* repeating 
himself* “ your notions of manly conduct are not valuable. ” 
“ And* oh* Gerard!” exclaimed the young lady* “it's my 
first ball; and will you practice the deux temps with me?” 
“ As much as you like*” said Gerard. 

“ Thank you*” said Milly. “ That is kind. The ball is- 
this day six weeks; and I am to wear—” Then the young 
lady drove into millinery detail; and Gerard having con- 
quered the imaginary obstacle in his pipe* recovered com- 
posure, and listened with a good-humored smile* under- 
standing nothing. 

“ And very nice you'll look in it*” he said; “ and I wish 
you lots of partners. ” 

“Aunt is going to return the visit this day week*” said 
Milly. “ I am going as well.” 

“ AH right*” said Gerard. “ I say* Milly! I'm going up 
to town next week. There are jewelers in town. Who 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


23 


knows? I might find a bracelet, or a necklace, or a pair of 
ear-rings, or something of that kind. Eh?” 

“0 Gerard,” cried Milly, “you are kind!” 

“Not a word about it now,” said Gerard in grave badi- 
nage. “The governor might stop my allowance if he 
heard of such extravagance. Mum’s the word!” 

Milly nodded with a grave face and sparkling eyes; and 
Gerard, with an answering nod of the head, strolled on to 
the stables. When he was alone again, the beautiful face 
came back to him, and he sauntered on solemnly, thinking 
of the coming dinner and the ball, and wondering with a 
surprising interest whether the young lady would remem- 
ber him. He was absent-minded and silent through the 
quiet family dinner that evening, though Cupid’s butt* 
shaft did not yet so rankle in him as to spoil his appetite. 
His mother, a sedate lady of six-and-forty, large and ma- 
tronly, with honest gray eyes like Gerard’s own, remarked 
his preoccupied looks; but his appetite appeased her fears. 
Mr. Lumby senior was nursing his first gout, and was free 
from the toils of the House of Commons for the remainder 
of the session. He drank numeral waters at dinner; and 
though he looked with longing eyes at the decanters and 
the claret jug, he suppressed himself like a hero. Between 
Gerardos preoccupation and his sire’s grievance at the min- 
eral waters, the table was very silent. 

“Father,” said Gerard, suddenly, “ I think I shall ride 
over and see Yal Strange to-night.” 

“Why?” asked the elder briefly. 

“Rupert is getting a little thick about the legs,” said 
Gerard, referring to his favorite horse. “ And it’s just the 
night for a quiet ride. I left a portmanteau and dressing- 
■ case there, so that there’s no need to take anything with 
me. ” 

“ All right, my lad,” said Lumby senior, heartily. 
“Come back to-morrow.” 

“ Of course,” said Gerard; and having kissed his father 
and mother, he went his way. The good-night kiss in this 
old-fashioned household was a habit carried on between 
father and son from Gerard’s childhood, and was always 
followed by a solemn shake-hands. Gerard did not kiss 
his pretty little second-cousin; though, perhaps you and 
I might have chosen Milly’s lips in preference to those of 
Lumby senior. But possibly Milly might have resented us. 


24 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


The blind boy’s butt-shaft rankled, though ever so little. 
That curious longing for solitude,, that almost unconscious 
desire to be alone with fancy, which assails the least 
imaginative of men under Lovers earliest influences, was 
upon him. He started briskly enough; but Rupert’s pace 
would have overtaken the halting Hiram’s steps before the 
gates of the Manor House were reached; but Gerard had 
not gone far when he suffered his half-formed dreams to 
run away with him. The reins dropped loose on the horse’s 
neck. The swift trot became a leisurely walk. The 
shadows gathered closer, flowing on from the east in dim 
pursuit of the descending sun, and Gerard w r as in the nar- 
row lane again, waiting for the carriage to go by, and look- 
ing down for one brief second, a thousand times recalled, 
into a pair of wonderful violet eyes, that smiled and then 
were hidden. 

But at this period of its existence. Love has its im- 
patience, its little bursts of temper, and its sudden longings 
for swift motion, as well as its liking for dreams. Rupert, 
not being in his master’s confidence, was astonished at the 
sudden dig of the spur; but after one angry curvet, he laid 
himself out for speed, and dashed along the level high-road 
at a rattling pace. He drew rein at the town, and went 
through its dimly lighted main street at a sufficiently sober 
pace; but he made Rupert lay himself out again along the 
stretch of road between town and Manor House, and had 
so roused the blood of the thorough-bred by this last spin, 
that he had as much as he could do to hold him in hand 
when he reached the darkened avenue. 

7 Look yere!” said a voice from the darkness. “Say 
which side o’ the way you want to liev, an’ I’ll take the 
other. ” 

“Is that you again?” asked Gerard, recognizing the 
voice. 

“ Good-evenin’, Colonel,” said Hiram, recognizing Gerard 
in turn. 

“You have delivered the letter? Or are you going 
now?” 

“ I hev been tliar,” said Hiram, reminiscent of Dr. 
Watts’s hymns; “but I can not say I still would go.” 

“ Why not?” said Gerard. “ What’s the matter?” 

“Wal, Colonel,” returned Hiram, “Mr. Strange’s 
flunky is a deal too overcooked for my taste.” 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


25 


“ What is the matter with him?” asked Gerard. 

“If you're going than,” returned Hiram, “you ean 
make inquiries into the natur' of his complaint yourself. 
An' it's like master like man, up thar. Colonel. I reckon, 
though, as you're another sort from that kind, an' I wish 
you good luck, sir, an' piles of it. Good-night. " 

“Good-night,” said Gerard, and he rode on. 

Hoskins answered the bell in wrath, being persuaded 
that the tramp had returned. “Well, now, what is it?” 
he demanded, opening the door and confronting the visitor 
with an air of lofty scorn. Then beholding Gerard, to whom 
he was indebted for countless tips, he abased himself in- 
wardly, and made excuses. “ I beg your parding, sir,” 
said Hoskins, with much humility, “but there have been 
a very trying party ringing at the bell, sir, on'y this min- 
ute, an' I fancied, sir, as 'ow 'e'd come back again. Beg 
parding, I'm sure. Mr. Strange is in the billiard-room, 
sir. Shall I 'old the 'oss, sir? Send him round to the 
stables? Yes, sir.” 

Gerard entered the house, and made his way to the 
billiard-room. “My American friend has been raising a 
shindy here,” he said to himself as he walked up the hall. 
Strange was making a stroke as Gerard entered the 
billiard-room, and there was a look, half of vexation and 
half of comedy, on his face. Hearing Gerard's step, he 
turned, and met him with a pleasant smile. “ Things 
were quiet at home,” said Gerard, “ and I felt inclined for 
a ride. I met my Yankee in the avenue; I suppose he de- 
livered the note? Queer fish, isn't he?” 

“ Bather,” said Strange, looking half vexed again. 
“ Lumby, the man in the arm-chair is Beginald Jolly. 
Bags, this is Gerard Lumby. You've heard me speak of 
him often.” 

“ Many a time,” said the little man. “ We're going to 
be neighbors, I believe. ” I 

“ I believe so,” said Gerard; and fell to wondering 
whether this could be the father or the brother of the young 
lady he had seen in the lane. Then remembering Milly's 
description of Jolly pere as a little man with a face like a 
Normandy pippin — brown and shriveled — he decided that 
this was not the father. The little man was bald enough 
to have been a grandfather; but his face was curiously 
young, and his age was a thing bewilderingly uncertain. 


26 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


i ‘‘ Ilike y° ur Yankee, Mr. Lumby,” said the bald-headed 
little man. apparently unconscious of Gerard’s scrutiny. 

“ I don't," said Strange. 

“ What has he been doing?” asked Gerard. “ He 
doesn t seem to have agreed with Hoskins either.” 
^^Gh,” said Strange, lightly, pausing on a stroke, “he 
did a little lngh-comedy pretense of wounded feeling, and 
threw down a half-crown I gave him.” 

“ Pretense!” said the bald-headed man. “Not a bit of 
it. He was real enough !” Hiram’s defender then told the 
story, with a ludicrously close imitation both of the Ameri- 
can and of Strange. “ Why should he throw half-crowns 
away? asked the narrator. “ He hasn’t many of ’em I’ll 
be bound. No, no, Val. The man was hurt, and lie let 
out with a facer. You know he was hurt. Strange, and 
you re sorry you said it. Come now: you know you are ” 

“ Rubbish,” said Strange. J 

But the little man insisted. “Come now. Strange; vou 
know you are.” 

“ Well, then,” said Strange, “ I am. Will you have a 
game, Lumby ?" 

Gerard consented, and as the game went on, they fell to 
talk of other matters. It came out incidentally that the 
bald-headed man had been at Oxford during Gerard's last 
term there. “ He can’t be younger than I am,” said the 
puzzled Gerard to himself. He began to fish delicately for 
an answer to his puzzle. “We had a call this afternoon,” 
he said, “from Mr. Jolly and your — ” He paused for the 
bald-headed man to fill up the blank. 

“ Granddaughter,” said the bald-headed man. 

This fairly staggered Gerard. “ I was away from home,” 
he began rather helplessly, when Strange broke in with a 
shout of laughter. The little man smiled with cheerful 
self-approval, and took a drink. 

“How old do you think he is?” cried Strange. 

“Treat me respectfully, if you please,” said the little 
man, with an air of dignity. “Iain one-and-twenty. I 
have arrived at man’s estate. It’s a common fallacy. 
Mi. Lumby, he continued, rising, and addressing Gerard 
with much solemnity, “ that I am bald. This is not bald- 
ness,” laying his hand on the top of his shining head. “ It 
is forehead, sir; forehead.” Then he sat down again and 
smiled in renewed self-approval, “ The lady,” he con- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


tinued, “who called this afternoon at LumbyHall, wasmj 
sister Constance.” 

Gerard went on with the game; and the little man re- 
sumed his big cigar. “ Constance,” said Gerard inwardly. 
“ A pretty name.” He liked it so well that he repeated it 
to himself. He thought the violet eyes looked faithful. 
“ Constance — constancy.” What nonsense was this? Why 
should the face so haunt his memory? Why should the 
name so cling to him? The three young men sat late to- 
gether, and Gerard was dull and lively by curious fits and 
starts. He went to sleep remembering the violet eyes, and 
lie dreamed of them. 


CHAPTER III. 

“I LIKE THE PRIMROSE WAY,” SAID STRANGE. 

After breakfast next morning. Strange and his guests 
were enjoying the day’s. first cigar. 

“ I want you two men to come home with me, and let 
me introduce you to my governor and my sister,” said Reg- 
inald J oily. 

This invitation jumped with Gerard’s desires, and his 
oheek colored with pleasure, unmarked by his companions. 
“ What do you say, Val?”he asked, with as great an as- 
sumption of indifference as he could wear. 

“I’m very sorry,” said Strange, “but I can’t come. I 
didn’t tell you of my last bargain, did I, Lumby?” 

“No. What is it?” 

“ I have bought a yacht, a beautiful thing, that sails I 
don’t know how many knots an hour; and I’m going to sail 
round the world in her ‘from China to Peru.’ What do 
you say to coming along, eh?” 

“ Val’s a noble sailor,” said Reginald. “ To my personal 
knowledge he has crossed the British Channel several times; 
and I believe, but I’m not quite certain, that he has been to 
the Isle of Man. ” 

“Indeed, you depreciatory ruffian! Rotterdam! Ant- 
werp! Lots of places!” 

“ Yes,” said Reginald; “you’re a mighty seaman.” 

“ Ah, well,” said Strange; “ I’m a better sailor than you 
are. ” 

“I don’t believe it,” the little man returned. “You 


?C3 


VALEKTIKE STEAK GE. 


suffered more than I did when we crossed to Calais together 
last summer.” 

“ Well," said Strange, reclining luxuriously in an arm- 
chair, and puffing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, “I 
like to face a difficulty. I like to battle with something 
that gets me down and rolls upon me to begin with. The 
sea has always beaten me until now, and Fm resolved to 
become an accomplished seaman.” 

“ He’ll provision himself for a year,” said Eeginald, 
“ and hell start for Pekin or Pernambuco; and before he 
has been out a day, hell feel unwell, and order himself to 
be put in at the nearest port. Ill wager half-a-crown that 
he never gets a hundred miles from British shores. Fd offer 
more, but I can! afford it.” 

“ I am resolved on making a voyage round the world,” 
said Strange, laughing good-humoredly. “ Will you come, 
Gerard?” 

“ Eh?” said Gerard, waking up, at the sound of his own 
name, from a dream of the violet eyes. 

“ You're dull this morning,” cried Yal, cheerily. “ W ake 
up, man. Fm going on a voyage round the world. Will 
you come with me?” 

“No; thank you,” said Gerard; “sailing's dull — duller 
than I am.” 

“ Thought you'd jump at the chance,” said Val. “ I 
know you're a first-rate yachtsman. ” 

“ I got tired of it,” said Gerard in reply, and lapsed into 
his day-dream. 

“ You'll get tired of it too,” said Eeginald, turning anew 
upon Strange. 

“Don't be too sure of that,” he replied. “You only 
know one side of me. There's a good deal of the Spartan, 
in my constitution. I find hardships pleasant. I like a 
rough-and-tumble life. I should revel in a campaign. ” 

“ You'd pretty soon revel out of it,” said the little man, 
with some disdain. “ Call yourself a Spartan, you Sybarite? 
Kough-and-tumble ? Gammon !” 

“Pooh!” said Yal, a shade less good-humoredly than 
before. “ You don't know me, my good fellow.” 

'“Don't I?” returned the skeptic. “Who went out of 
training for the College Eight on the very first day, and 
was caught by me in the act of smoking whilst brewing 
cider-cup?” 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


29 


“Very good cup it was, too ,” said Val, striving to pro- 
pitiate his critic. 

But the little man arose, and stood over him sternly. 
“ Who always went headlong for the Newdegate, and wrote 
twenty lines, and then chucked it? Who came back from 
his last lounge in Brussels and — ” 

“ Never mind more instances/'’ said Strange. “I admit 
them all. I don’t care to live line and rule. I don’t 
want to be hampered by restrictions. As for the 
training, I never believed in the system. I should 
have pulled as well after a cigar and a glass of cider- 
cup, as I could have done without them.” He laughed 
with renewed good-humor. “ But you must needs come 
prowling round, like the tyrannical dwarf you are, to see 
what I was doing. It was you who ordered me out of train- 
ing, not I who went out of it.” 

“ I ordered you out of the boat,” said the little man, 
still standing over him. “ A precious cosun I should have 
been, if I hadn’t.” 

“I don’t believe in training,” said Strange, with much 
decision. “We overdo it, and go stale.” 

“ You never overdid it,” said his late coxswain severely. 
“ You are an idler by nature, plus circumstance. You are 
disgustingly rich, and that fact fosters your natural prone- 
ness to self-indulgence. You wallow in gold and purple 
and fine linen. Your feet are set forever in the Primrose 
Way.” 

“ I like the Primrose way,” said Strange. “ 1 am fond 
of primroses.” 

“‘Many there be,”’ quoted the coxswain with an un- 
bending air, ‘who go the Primrose Way to — ’” 

“ Say the workhouse,” pleaded Val, languidly, “ I know ! 
Regy, my boy, you’re perpetually preaching. You’re too 
energetic and too shamelessly and outspokenly good, for 
me. Now, look at me. # I am athletic by stealth, and 
blush to find it fame. I "cover up my good works. I don’t 
brag of them.” 

“ You are a lotus-eater and a Sybarite,” said the little 
man severely. “ And you crown your offenses with a crown 
of aggravation, when you come and crow over a hardy son 
of the soil like me, and call yourself a Spartan.” 

“ I am a Spartan,” said Strange lightly. “ I’ll do this 
voyage and something more.” 


so 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“Who is going with you?" asked Gerard, waking up 
again. 

“Gilbert. You remember Gilbert at Oriel? First-rate 
man for the commissariat." 

“Ah," said Reginald, relighting his cigar, and looking 
round at Strange with an expression most comically like 
that of a parrot bent on mischief: “he's another Sybarite. 
Wanted to train on truffles and Heidsieck's monopole!" 

“ Did he?" said Strange, laughing. “The good old 
Billy. It was like him. Well, he has the complete con- 
trol of the commissariat department, and carte-blanche to 
lay in what he likes. He has found a wonderful cook, a 
sort of nautical Soyer; and he's invented a capital wine 
case to swing on — I forget what the things are called; but 
the wine doesn't get shaken in any sort of weather. " 

“ It's a very Spartan sort of expedition altogether," said 
the critic. “ I hope you've a piano oh board!" 

“ Of course," said Strange. “ A crate of books. Cards, 
backgammon, chess, everything in that way we could 
think of. Because, you see," he continued, with a chastened 
air, “ there's a good deal of tedium in living on board a 
yacht; and since I am rather a man of action than other- 
wise, I'm likely to find it dull. " 

“ Poor Spartan!" said Reginald, with a comic, crackling 
laugh. 

“ There is no form of humor so cheap as the catchword," 
said Yal, sententiously. Then the two laughed together, 
and Gerard came out of a new da} r -dream. 

“I suppose," said Gerard, “you remember that you 
were engaged to run up to town with me next week?" 

“No. Am I?" asked Yal, sitting up with an. air of 
apology. “ So I am. I'm really sorry, Lumby; but I'm 
afraid I can't keep Gilbert waiting. You'll excuse me, 
won't you?" 

“Certainly, if you wish it," said Gerard, a little un- 
graciously. 

“ I'll write, and put Gilbert off for a week, if you like?" 
said Val, with a penitent look. 

“ No," said Gerard, heartily, forgetting his momentary 
pique. “ Don't do anything of the sort, for me. I don't 
know that I've any special reason for going, after all." 

“ It's curious," said Strange, sinking back into his arm- 
chair again — “it's very curious that I should have forgotten 


VALENTINE STEANGE. 31 

that engagement. If there's a thing Fm careful to do it is 
to remember an engagement.” 

At this moment Hoskins entered with a telegram,, which: 
he handed to his master. “ Excuse me,” said Strange; and 
opening the missive, he laid down his cigar, and read it. 

“ Dear me,” he said, rising. “ Here's poor Gilbert wiring 
to me to say that we made arrangements to sail yesterday. 
I thought it was Thursday; and the day turns out to have 
been Tuesday. I was going down this afternoon to join 
him. Well now,” turning upon the gleeful Reginald, who 
was chuckling at this practical illustration. “What is 
there to laugh at?” 

“Nothing in the world,” the little man responded.. 
“ Pack up at once; wire to Gilbert; and start by the next 
train. ” 

“ I'm afraid I must,” said Yal, a little ruefully. “ Hos- 
kins! Find out the first train for Bristol.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Hoskins, and departed. 

“Have you made any arrangements to reduce your 
establishment while you sail round the world?” asked 
Reginald. 

“ Oh, no,” said Strange. “ The voyage round the world 
is not an enterprise to be undertaken without experience. 
We shall make preliminary voyages, and get gradually 
inured to the w.ork.” 

“You can catch a train in an hour and a half from 
now,” said Reginald. “Off you go; and we'll ride with 
you to the station; and then” — bowing solemnly to Gerard 
— “ perhaps Mr. Lumby will do me the honor to come and 
lunch with me at home?” 

“Very happy,” said Gerard, rather clumsily. His heart 
began to beat with some irregularity, and he was conscious 
of a curious restraint. 

Yal, having made his moan about the breaking up of a 
pleasant lounge, and having enlarged on the disagreeable- 
ness of railway travel in the summer-time, went off to super- 
intend his packing; and in due time the three started; 
Strange lolling in an open carriage, surrounded by sundry 
portmanteaus, and his companions riding cn each side of 
him. Arrived at the station, the Spartan-minded mariner 
fortified himself for the journey, which was to last an hour 
and a half, by the purchase of all the daily and the comic 


32 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


r\ 

papers; and parted from his friends in a sudden burst of 
high spirits and alacrity. 

Gerard and his new acquaintance rode away together 
leisurely. The young fellow was in a singular tumult, and 
had. before this begun to suspect the truth concerning him- 
self. Yet the truth, to a man so little sentimental, seemed 
absurd and laughable. To have seen a girl for a second 
or two, and to be thrown into a flutter by it for four-and- 
twenty-hours, and to find the rout of sense and senses 
growing completer even then, was an experience which 
would have seemed ridiculously improbable in any man s 
case to Gerard: and that it should happen to him, made 
him ashamed of himself. We can read with equanimity 
of the folly even of sages; but that we should ourselves be 
vulnerable, though we make no especial claim to wisdom, 
is startling to discover. This stalwart young Briton had 
indulged in no flirtations — had never played with the grand 
passion — had spoken despitefully of it — bragged a little in 
his secret heart that he was not a lady's man; and believed 
himself, when he thought about the matter at all, to be cut 
out for a comfortable bachelorhood. 

Mr. Jolly's newly occupied residence lay, as the crow 
flies, not ’more than a mile and a half from Lumby Hall. 
From the roof of one house, the chimney-pots of the other 
could be descried; but the lower ridges of Daflin Head lay 
between them; and the Grange, like the * Hall, looked 
southward, and was protected from northerly winds. Not 
half a mile from the gates of the smaller house, light craft 
could lie comfortably at anchor; but they were hidden 
from view by a little mound, and a feathery belt of firs, 
whose somber and unchanging green stood out against the 
pale blue of the hazy summer sky. Between this small 
anchorage and the front of Lumby Hall, rose the crags of 
Daflin Head round which many a white sail floated into 
sight in the summer weather, when the ranks of pleasure 
closed up alongside the ranks of trade. In days that came 
later, Valentine Strange took harbor within the shadow 
of those dusky pines, bearing within himself a deeper shad- 
ow than they could throw, a shadow which widened from 
himself, as such things will, and cast its gloom on many. 
Now, beyond the shadow of the gloomy pines, the sea mur- 
mured in the sunshine and the sea-mew called, and the 
white sails glittered, and the distant haze trembled in the 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 33 

neat, and there was no sense of anything but rest and peace 
above this quiet haven. 

But rest and peace are for the restful and peaceful, and 
the most exquisite of Nature's moods is caviare to the un- 
quiet mind. Poor Gerard's heart beat dolefully as he rode 
by his companion's side to meet the goddess who was 
henceforth for so long to rule over him. Yet shall not the 
reader, if I can help it, picture to himself a mien disturbed, 
a countenance unsteady. The tremors Gerard felt were 
inward and hidden; and the little man riding with him 
could not have guessed, keen as he was, that Gerard had a 
tremor to hide. 

It is probable that a handsome man can not be seen to" 
greater advantage than on horseback. Gerard had a noble 
figure and a well-set head — a trifle too haughty in its car- 
riage, as I have written already — though the frank good- 
humor of his face had something of a denial for that 
haughty bearing. His face was plain; but if you will 
think of it, you may be surprised to discover how little that 
matters in your estimate of a man, so long as the expres- 
sion is one of openness and sweet temper. A young lady 
looking idly through the open spaces of a Venetian blind 
thought well of the young man's presence as he swept up 
the avenue and alighted at the door. A young lady with 
wonderful violet eyes, a young lady of very lovely form 
and exquisite feature and color, and attired in a morning 
dress of pure white, with lace ruffles at the wrists and 
throat. Her brown hair rippled over her shapely head, and 
grew low upon her broad fair forehead, as in Mr. Powers's 
charming bust of Clytie. She stood a minute to look at 
the new arrival, and recognized him. Then she turned, 
and for half a minute surveyed herself in a mirror, and 
finding herself faultless at all points, glided to her own 
room to add a touch to perfection. 

When she descended and met Gerard in the cool dimness 
of the morning-room, and the bald-headed man said, “My 
sister Constance," the thing seemed ludicrous. Constance, 
muslin and laces and all, looked as though she might have 
risen, like Aphrodite, from the white sea-foam, a creature 
of inspiration, and not of vulgar birth. No such fancies 
were likely to cluster around her brother, who was decided- 
ly unromantic in aspect. 

“ You have ridden from the Manor House at Brierham?" 

2 


34 


VALENTINE STEAK GE. 


she said. “ Then I am sure you must be hungry. Shall I 
order luncheon?” 

Now, as a conversational effort, there was nothing especial- 
ly remarkable in this utterance; but I doubt greatly whether 
Gerard had, up to that time, ever listened to human speech 
which so pleased him. It was spoken with a smile which 
was delicious to look at. The clear silver voice came 
through such smiling gates of pearl and coral, such ex- 
quisite white teeth, such beautiful lips, that nothing it could 
say could be commonplace. 

He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires. 

Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
Fuel to maintain his fires, 

As old Time makes these decay, 

So his love shall waste away. 

Is that so? Always? Perhaps it depends on the nature of 
the lover, with whom, in some rare and happy instances* 
age can not wither, nor custom stale the beauties that won 
his heart in youthful days. Beauty is a good gift, and I 
will not decry it. With a heart already prepared to yield* 
as Gerardos was, such rare and supreme charms as those he 
saw before him were sure of victory. He drank in Con- 
stance^ words, and unconsciously stored them in his mem- 
ory; so that years later he recalled the little commonplaces* 
the nothings of politeness and good-breeding spoken on that 
happy morning. His eyes were hungry for her face when 
he forced them to look away lest his gaze should embarrass 
her. He was too agitated to be happy, yet- he thought 
himself so. Love’s first draught is sweet enough; it is only 
in the after-taste that we taste its bitterness. 

“ The hour approaches Tam maun ride.” It comes, that 
inexorable time, when we must go back to harness from 
the pleasant reaches of the river and idle summer days; or 
to our own lonely rooms, after the society of our own best 
intimates; or into the wild inane, which dwells everywhere 
save where our love may be. 

“We shall see you often, I trust, Mr. Lumby.” Thus 
the elder Jolly, a brown and withered man of five-and-fifty* 
with a dreary bent toward table oratory. Gerald would 
fain have said something, though no more than a word, to* 
tell Constance how heavily time bade fair to drag with him. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


35 


until lie should meet her again; hut he restrained himself, 
nnd said good-day politely, and no more. So, he loved and 
rode away. The inland-reaching meadows, the yellow 
sands that ran up from the sea to meet their sparser 
grasses, the familiar headlands, and the bay — how dreary 
they all looked to the new lovers eyes! There was an 
altogether novel restlessness upon him, and the fiery Rupert 
felt it, and fretted beneath it. 

“Do you want to gallop?” said Gerard. “Gallop, 
then!” He laid the reins loose, and the horse shot across 
the turf with an exultant bound, and his master encouraged 
him with voice and hand. But not Rupert's noblest pace 
oould carry Gerard away from himself. Says the quaint 
old songster: 

I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly, but iu vain, 

For I am myself my own fever and pain. 

And Gerard was as near himself as ever when he checked 
Rupert at the foot of the hill which led homeward. 

“Father,” said the love-tormented youth, an hour later, 
<e I think I shall run up to town to-morrow. There's 
nothing doing down here just now. Strange has gone 
.away yachting, and Fm a trifle dull. ” 

• “ Very well, my lad,” said Mr. Lumby. It was his almost 
invariable answer to any expression of Gerard's will; and 
indeed, the father's continual indulgence might have done 
much damage to a mental constitution less firmly knit than 
Gerard's. 

“I meant to go next week,” said Gerard, “ and I may 
as well run at once. The close of the season is coming; 
and I shall miss everybody if I delay much longer. ” 

“Very well, my lad,” said Lumby senior once more. 
“ Shall you want any money?” 

“ No,” said Gerard; “ I think not. If I should. I'll call 
on Garling.” 

“ Very well, my lad,” assented the father once again. 
Garling was Mr. Lumby's right-hand man, the captain of 
Iiis host. Mr. Lumby's father had bred Garling to busi- 
ness, and he had grown up into control side by side with 
the present head of the firm. He rather looked down on 
the younger partners; but since they looked up to him, and 
had been trained to business under him, things went more 


36 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


smoothly than they commonly do when subordinate officers 
take tiie upper hand. 

In the evening, after dinner, Gerard strolled from the 
house, and almost unconsciously walked toward Baffin 
Head, and sitting down within sight of the Grange, gave 
himself up to Ins own thoughts. Two days before, he had 
felt no especial interest in that eligible and desirable coun- 
try residence. He had been familiar with it from cliild- 
- hood, and had known the people who had lived in it, a 
lather low and horsy set, who had come to grief upon the 
turf a year ago, and had disappeared, unregretted, from 
the county horizon. He had shunned the place all his life 
except for the interchange of mere formal civility: and 
now it had suddenly become the very heart of this world 
and began to draw him to itself, as though it were the seat 
of the center of gravitation. He sat and looked at it as 
the shadows gathered, and in a little while light began to • 
twinkle in its windows. Through the dusk he strolled on 
' f£ ai ? n nearer and nearer by devious ways, until he passed 
the lodge gates. There was a possibility that young Jolly 
might be straying thereabouts, and might meet him and 
ask him m. At that fancy he turned unaccountably shy 
and began to dread a chance encounter. Then meeting 
nobody he felt disappointed that his dread had not been 
1 eahzed ; and in that mood, with a vague hungry feeling 
superadded, he walked home again. 

His youth and health and the open-air life he led were 
euough to stave off for the present that attendant upon first 
love, by doctors called insomnia. He slept soundly till the 
morning grew gray; and then he began to dream again of 
the violet eyes, and awoke restless and disquieted. I think 
that a manly youngster is always pretty certain to show 
fight in a matter of this kind, and not to yield himself 
tamely and without a struggle. It was at this time that 
Gerard, making brief preparations for his visit to town, re- 
solved against the tenant of his heart, and turned rebel 
against Love. But the fight was unequal, and he was driven 
from the field of defiance with all his forces routed. He 
bought the promised presents for Milly; and surveying the 
treasures of the jeweler’s trays, wished that he had the 
right to buy up the stock for Constance and lay its riches 
at her feet. He made calls, and received cards for the last 
receptions of the dying season, and was dull at all of them. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


37 


He went to the Opera, and Patties liquid notes flowed un- 
heard about his ears. He went to see Toole, and yawned 
dismally through a three-act farce, called a comedy, at 
which everybody in the house save himself shouted w r ith 
laughter. Then at the end of a week, he went home again, 
and made Milly happy by his presents, and happier still by 
the promised waltzing lessons. 

We become so soon habituated and inured to any new 
method of feeling or thinking, that in a day or two the new 
way seems as familiar as the old. Gerard might have been 
in love for a year by the time the Jollys gave their house- 
warming dinner, such a part of his life had love become. 
He dressed for that event with extraordinary care, and be- 
gan to think slightingly of his own personal appearance. 
Until then, barring that general satisfaction with himself 
which is common to youth, he had not thought about it at 
all, and his new opinions abased him. Constance did the 
honors of the house like a queen, he thought; and indeed 
she was the object of much encomium. Such beauty could 
scarcely go unapproved; and it was the general opinion 
that Miss Jolly was a very charming addition to the county 
society. Perhaps it was only natural that the ladies should 
express less enthusiasm than the men; but they were re- 
served in their judgments, and refrained from encomiastic 
flights in which members of the more impressionable sex 
indulged. 

Dinner over, Gerard maneuvered to be near Constance, 
and found himself assisted by Milly. There was nothing 
easier or less embarrassing in the world than to talk to 
Milly; and that young lady, having none of the shyness 
which Gerard felt for Constance, led the way to where she 
stood, taking the irresolute lover with her. It was as if a 
mastiff should have taken shelter behind a pigeon, this big, ' 
tanned Gerard wavering deviously toward his love under 
cover of the dainty Milly. Constance, once reached, was 
gracious enough. There was no chance for a confidential 
talk, for she played hostess, and was busy with her father's 
guests. Yet may the historic Muse record their converse, 
if but as a guide to future lovers, as chance conversations 
are set forth in foreign phrase-books for the help of tour- 
ists. 

Gerard, Very warm, is it not, Miss Jolly? 


38 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Constance. Very warm, indeed. My dear Mrs. Weatli- 
erley, how do you do?” 

[Mrs. Weatherley, after sundry commonplaces, retires. 

Gerard. You were not in town at the end of the season? 

Constance. No. 

Gerard. Everything was very dull. Dullest time I 
can remember. I was longing to be back in the country 
all the time. 

Constance. Were you, indeed? 

Gerard (beholding an opportunity for saying something 
brilliantly complimentary, but not quite knowing what to 
say, or how to say it). Yes. 

Constance. My dear Miss Pennfeather, I have so been 
wishing to see you. 

[Gush. Miss Pennfeather retires. 

Gerard. I hope youll excuse me. Miss Jolly, but you 
must really allow me to congratulate you upon the deco- 
rations. Pm rather a judge of that sort of thing, and 
they're really charming. 

Constance. I am so glad you like them. 

Milly. Aunty is beckoning me with her fan. Will 
you give me your arm? 

[Gerard bows to his idol, and retires. 

Constance. My dear Agnes, I am charmed to see you. 
How do you do, Mr. Dolby? 

[The strains of music overpower all voices. 

Gerard piloted Milly across the room, and surrendered 
her to the care of his mother, and then retired to a door- 
way, against which he lounged, looking on the glittering 
scene with no lightness of heart. He reviewed the con- 
versation above recorded, and wrote himself down an ass 
for his share in it. How different he was from Constance! 
How far removed from her — how much beneath her! The 
unprejudiced observer fails to see the truth of all this. 
Miss Jolly was very beautiful, but she was not a Minerva 
for wisdom. There was nothing in her converse to dazzle 
us who are not in love with her. Yet let no youth or 
maiden smile superior over Gerardos raptures and his self- 
disdain. You, who laugh, have yet to go through your ex- 
periences. We, who are middle-aged, have had our day, 
and we remember, not without unavailing longing for the 
past. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


39 


CHAPTER IV. 

HIRAM “ LOOKS AROUND FOR SOMETHING TO GET A LIVIN' 
AT. " 

The Black Horse at Brierham was not a luxurious hostel, 
but it satisfied Hiram Search. It was an easy matter to 
satisfy him just then, and even the Black Horse was more 
attractive to a weary man than the open fields. Hiram 
was hungry as well as tired; and the unpretending inn had 
bread-and-cheese and cider, all home-made and wholesome. 
The landlord, discerning Hiram's foreign extraction by his 
tongue, pressed him to eat. “I shall charge 'ee voiqience 
whatever 'ee gets outside on," said the landlord; “zoeed 
better take thy vill. " He was not a man to go back from 
this hospitable invitation; but Hiram accepted it in such 
good faith, that the watching landlord grew skejitical of 
profit on his custom. “ You be main hungry, aperiently, 
mate," said the landlord. Hiram was too busy to waste 
breath in answer. He raised his sharp eyes to the land- 
lord's face and nodded, and then went on with a relishing 
sip at the cider. The host, watched him with more philos- 
ophy than might have been expected of him, until at last, 
with a sigh of pure contentment, Hiram pushed away the 
brown home-made loaf^and the white crumbling cheese, 
and doubling up the huge clasp-knife, returned it to his 
pocket. After solemnly enjoying a pipe, he paid his bill 
and went to bed, in a small room with a sloping roof. 
Small as the room was, there were two beds in it, and on 
one of them lay a hulking fellow in heavy highlows and a 
patched suit of cords. A resting-place of any sort was too 
precious to be quarreled with; and Hiram, having partly 
undressed, made sure of the safety of his money, and lay 
down. He was asleep in twenty seconds, and never moved 
until the rays of the morning sun struck through the un- 
curtained window and awoke him. He turned over to 
avoid the glare, and became conscious of his patched and 
hobnailed companion, who was snoring terrifically. 
Hiram took up one of his own boots and dropped it noisily 
upon the floor. The man ceased to snore, and by and by 


40 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


sat up, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and grumbling in a 
sleepy undertone. 

“ Nice morning ain't it?" said Hiram. 

The hobnailed man looked surlily round, and anathema- 
tized the nice morning; then arising, he shook himself, 
rumpled his coarse red hair with his freckled hands, reached 
out for a rabbit-skin cap, and, in completion of his simple 
toilet, put it on, and began to smoke. Hiram gathered his 
few belongings, and went down-stairs to the inn-yard, where 
he refreshed himself at the pump. The people of the house 
were astir already, and one or two heavy fellows who looked 
like quarrymen, were taking a morning drink at the bar. 
The entrance of a policeman created some sensation and 
the quarrymen moved uneasily, as in the presence of a na- 
tive enemy. The official with loud dignity demanded the 
landlord, who appeared before him smiling in a propitia- 
tory manner and proffering drink. 

“I've got information as Corduroy Jim is here," said the 
policeman loudly. 

Hiram, polishing himself on a jack-towel in the yard, 
heard this statement, and wondered casually whether Cor- 
duroy Jim was the man who had shared his room last night. 
He looked up to the window, and saw the red-headed man 
busy at the fastening. 

“No affair o' mine," said Hiram, and entered still towel- 
ing himself. 

“ So a be, Mister Blunt," said the landlord. 

“Well, I want him," returned the officer, all impor- 
tance, 

“ What have he been a-doin of?" inquired the host. 

“ Old game," returned the officer — “ poachin'. Where 
is he? Let's have a look at him." The policeman said 
this with a waggish air, as though there were somehow a 
joke in it; and the quarrymen gave him the laugh which 
his glance demanded. 

“He be upstair," said the landlord. “He slep' here 
last night along o' that young man." 

The official regarded “ that young man "thus indicated, 
and bent upon him a brow of stern severity, as though the 
circumstance had clothed him with suspicion; but Hiram en- 
countering his gaze with a wink and a friendly nod, the 
glance of authority dwindled and faded; and the police- 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 41 

man, who was a little young at his business, looked sheep- 
ish. 

“ Show the way,” he said, recovering a sense of his im- 
portance; and he and the landlord marched heavily up- 
stairs. Hiram pricked up his ears and listened. There 
^ was heard a certain clatter of hobnailed boots in the paved 
yard, and the owner of the rabbit-skin cap and the cor- 
duroys was seen in the act of climbing a low wall. Down 
' came the landlord and the policeman roaring “ Stop him!” 
Nobody seemed to feel a call in that direction, and the 
officer went in pursuit alqjie. 

“Drabbit un!** said the landlord. “ He haven*t paid 
for his bed. He must ha* dropped out o* winder. ** 

Away went the corduroys, and away, a hundred yards be- 
hind, went the representative of law. Law came up hand 
over hand, and then, his breath failing suddenly, stood 
disconsolate, and watched the hobnails glinting away into 
the distance. Thus foiled, the officer had no mind to re- 
turn to the “ Black Horse/* but took his melancholy way 
across the meadows to report his failure. The excitement 
of the chase having subsided, it came out that the landlord 
had a double grievance. The illegal sportsman had not 
only left his bill unpaid, but he had left a contract unful- 
filled. The landlord had engaged him to mend half a 
dozen chairs, and the mending process had gone no further 
than the cutting away of the old canes. 

“ An* now,** murmured the landlord, “ I ain*t got ne*er 
a cheer for nobody to set on in my house. An* as like as 
naht, it ull be a tweTmonth avore a cheer-mender puts his 
foot inside the county.** 

“ What*s your pay for the job?** inquired Hiram. 

The landlord named his price; and after a little chaffer- 
ing, Hiram undertook the work; and being provided with 
the slips of split cane and the simple tools left behind by 
the illegal sportsman, he sat down in the shade, lit a pipe, 
and surveyed his task with the eye of a master of the chair- 
mending craft. It may be worth while to say that the 
work was utterly new to him. 

“ Naow,** said the wily Hiram, with an unseated chair in 
one hand and a bundle of canes in the other, “ what*s your 
notion? Is theer any partic*lar style you fancy?** 

The landlord didn*t know as how there was. 

“ Ain*t you got another cane-seated cheer in the house? 


42 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Very well, then. You'd like 'em to match, I reckon. 
Bring the cane-seated arm-chair out, an* let me have a look 
at it. That's right. The arm-cheer's like the father o' 
the fam'ly, an' you can't help wantin' the children to 
feature him a little." 

Hiram, haying procured the desired model, examined it 
closely, and fell into the work with marvelous quickness. 
Before he had been at it an hour he was caning away with 
the greatest dexterity, and whistling at his labor as cheer- 
ful as the throstle. 

“ Wherever one man slips out," said Hiram to himself 
in the pauses of his music, “ there's room for another to 
slip in. We air so tight wedged in this eifete old planet 
that if a man once gets outside the crowd, he finds it hard 
to shoulder in again. But if a feller keeps his eyes peeled, 
somebody's pe-rennially failin' over the edge into general 
space, an' then there’s room for another pair o' feet to 
stand in. Young man in the skin-cap ain't likely to assoom 
this route again for some while. I'll conduct his business 
for him. " 

The first chair being completed, he surveyed the work of 
his hands with smiling admiration; and having sat upon it 
to test its firmness, he admired it anew. 

“ It is sing'lar," meditated Hiram, “how pretty a thing 
looks when a man's done it himself. A cheer-bottom is not 
an artistic object, regarded in the abstract; but this yer 
arrangement looks real nice, I dew declare. Whatever a 
man does, he puts a bit of himself into it, an' then he 
thinks it's handsome. Human natur'," pursued the philoso- 
pher beginning on another chair, “ would prob'ly work very 
rusty if it wa'n't greased with a little self-appreciation. 
That is so. How, only this mornin' to see that gell in the 
house here smilling at herself in a scrap o' lookin'-glass; an' 
yet if she was to see that head of hers on top of any other 
gell's figger, she'd laff at it. An' then to see me lookin' at 
a cheer-bottom as if I loved it — smirkin' at it, like a can- 
didate at a voter— just because I've put it together. We 
air curious critters, sir; an' no man is free from human 
frailty. " 

His thin clever fingers made no stay whilst he thus com- 
muned with himself, talking in a low continuous nasal 
hum, with only one word audible here and there. He seem- 
ed by this time as well accustomed to the work as if it had 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


43 


been his daily occupation; and when the landlord came out 
to look at him, no suspicion that Hiram was an amateur 
chair-mender crossed his mind. Hiram finished his work, 
and the landlord paid the stipulated price. 

“ If you happen to have the half-sovereign I changed 
last night,” said Hiram, “ I should like to have it back 
again. 

The landlord had that one half-sovereign and no other; 
and Hiram gave silver in exchange for it. 

Some of the canes remaining over, and the landlord 
claiming them, Hiram chaffered for them; and went his 
way with a few loose sixpences to keep the half-sovereign 
company, and a new trade in his fingers. He approached 
London by a devious route, going out of his way to any lit- 
tle town where the new trade seemed likely to thrive. Liv- 
ing sparely, and working wherever he found a chance, he 
thrived so well that he reached the great city with a total 
stock of fifty shillings, prepared to begin the world anew. 
At first sight, London struck him as being more than a 
trifle dingy and oppressive, and he was tired with a long- 
day ^s tramp. But having secured a cheap lodging and re- 
freshed himself by an hour's rest, he strolled out again on 
a journey of observation. 

“ Twopence all the way,” yelled an omnibus conductor, 
hanging on by his strap at a remarkable angle and gesticu- 
lating wildly. 

“ Be at rest, young man,” said Hiram serenely; “ I will 
travel all the way.” He tendered twopence. 

“ Pay when you get down,” said the conductor. “ Here's 
a land for trust an' confidence,” said Hiram to himself. 
“ How does he know when a man has twopence?” He sat 
on the knifeboard and smoked, surveying London. 

“I've read somewhere,” he mused, “that in this triflin' 
village a man dies every five minutes. That's a chance 
each five minutes to them that's left. Now, I've been here 
three hours, an' if my statistics air correct, I've missed six- 
and-thirty chances already. It's real ghastly to think of, if 
it's true, an' I suppose it is. Twelve tragedies an hour. 
Twelve sufferin' souls relieved from twelve sufferin' bodies 
every hour in this amazin' congregation.” Hiram's 
thoughts were growing grave, and London was beginning 
to lay hold of him as it does with all men who can think 
and feel. Out of the loud noise and hurrying crowds of 


44 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Whitechapel, the omnibus rolled on to the solemn quiet 
which lies when the business of the day is done about the 
Exchange and the Bank and deserted Cheapside. “ Looks 
as if there'd been a plague here/’ thought the stranger. 
The streets were as sparsely peopled as those of his native 
village. 

As the omnibus traveled to what seemed a new city, all 
glare and gloom, the conductor came to the roof to collect 
his fares. He was a red-faced young man, with signs of 
drink upon him— blotched, blear-eyed, and puffy. His hot 
breath struck a blast of gin full in the traveler's face, and 
Hiram turned his head away disgusted. At that second the 
vehicle lurched slightly; there was a cry from one of the 
passengers; and Hiram, looking round, missed the figure of 
the ^ conductor. The man had fallen backward from the 
roof, and lay upon the stony pavement with his limbs 
abroad, and his blotched face uppermost. The driver 
arrested his horses; the passengers descended, and ran to 
the prostrate figure; people from the pavements and the 
shops made a crowd about it. 

“Stand clear!" cried Hiram. “Give the man a breath 
of air. He raised the helpless head and shoulders; and 
those in the inner circle pressed back and forced a little 
space. “ Get a glass of water, somebody," said Hiram, 
passing a firm but gentle hand over the man's limbs. 
“ Bight arm's broke," he said, after this brief examination. 

* tV glass, of water was handed over the heads of the crowd, 
and reached him half empty. In the conductor's fall, a 
handful of copper and silver money had been thrown from 
the leathern pouch he carried, and one or two men busied 
themselves picking up the scattered coins. One scarecrow, 
who had picked up half-a-crown, was making off with it, 
when Hiram's long arm and lean fingers shot out after him 
and seized him. “ Hand over!" said Hiram; and the quak- 
ing wretch surrendered his booty, and slipped into the 
crowd, glad to hide himself. The others, with that me- 
chanical surrender to any seeming of authority which is the 
most noticeable characteristic of men in crowds, followed 
suit and laid their findings in Hiram's outstretched palm. 
By this time the driver had cumbrously released himself 
from the straps and wrappages, and had made his way to 
his injured colleague's side, followed by a policeman. A 
cab was called, and the man was driven to a hospital. The 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


45 


people dispersed. Some of tlie passengers, who were 
scrupulous, paid their fare to the driver. Others, who 
were not, availed themselves of the accident, and econo- 
mized. Hiram resumed his seat upon the omnibus. 

“I can't take no passengers without a conductor,” said 
the driver. “It's agen the law. Fm a-goin' to drive 
kune now.” 

“ Fve got some money belongin' to that poor feller," said 
Hiram, “ an' I'll give it in at the proper quarter.” 

“ All right,” responded the driver. The 'bus rolled on 
again, this time to the Company's offices, where the driver 
told his tale, and Hiram surrendered the money. 

“Much obliged to you, I'm sure,” said the official in 
charge; “but you needn't have taken the trouble. You 
might have given it to the driver. " 

“Well,” said Hiram, “ I didn't want to lose a chance. 
I only reached London to-night, an' I'm looking around 
for somethin' to get a livin' at. Wherever one man gets 
broke, 'pears to me another's wanted to take his place; an' 
till your man's mended, I'm game to take hisn. ” 

“We are rather short of hands just now,” said the offi- 
cial in charge. 

“Mind, mister,” pursued Hiram, “I don't want to take 
no man's cheese from between his teeth; but I'm game to 
hold that man's place an' keep it warm till you've got him 
mended. ” 

The official smiled, and asked: “ Can you get anybody to 
give you a character, or be surety for you?” 

“ I don't know a creetur in the city,” said Hiram; “but 
mebbe that'll do for surety.” He laid two pounds upon 
the desk. “ The job ain't the sort that takes seven years' 
apprenticeship to learn, is it?” 

“ Why, no,” said the other, smiling again. “ Come 
here in the morning at half past seven o'clock, and they'll 
give you an answer at once.” Hiram took up his money 
and retired, having made a note of the address. Pausing 
now and then to ask his way, he walked back to his lodg- 
ings. 

Behold Hiram, two days later, after an interview favora- 
bly conducted, and after all due formalities achieved, in- 
vested with badge and satchel, and in fullness of time as- 
suming his place as conductor. On his first journey, he 
was content to repeat the hoarse cries of the driver. On the 


46 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


second journey, he was familiar with his duties. Before 
the day was done, he had merged his own notions of the 
English language in the waters of oblivion, and cried* 
“Benk! Benk! Benk!” or “ Whitecheppel!” like an omni- 
bus conductor to the manner born. He appeared by and 
by in a tall white hat and a scarf of vivid blue and scarlet, 
and became a man of mark. The regular travelers upon 
his route began to know him, and he throve and grew im- 
mensely popular. It was noticed at the office at which he 
paid in his money that the receipts of the vehicle he super- 
intended had amazingly increased, and the authorities put 
their own construction upon that fact. Mr. Search was in- 
corruptibly honest and scrupulously careful. Mr. Search was 
neat and smart in personal appearance, and. had indeed be- 
come something of a dandy. Mr. Search shunned the intoxi- 
cating cup, was always up to his work, always good-humored* 
yet never without his quaint repartee when needed — could 
indeed sting upon occasion — in short, he became a most re- 
spected member of a not too-respected or respectable body. 
That eminent patter vocalist. The Great Blower, advertised 
as the author, composer, and only singer of “ The Leary 
Cove,” heard of Hiram, traveled many stages by omnibus- 
in order to study him, and appeared at the Megatherium 
Concert Hall as the author, composer, and only singer of 
“The Yankee Toff,” with an imitation of Hiram, which 
raised him to a very pinnacle of fame amongst the con- 
ductors of his day. The ditty of the Great Blower became 
popular, and Hiram heard it from many barrel-organs. 
Street youths whistled it and shouted it; nightly choruses 
with applausive accompaniment of hand and foot, were 
sung to it at the Megatherium Concert Hall, and Hiram 
became a celebrity. 

“ I reckon,” Hiram would say to himself, in contempla- 
tion of this and other matters, as he swung on his strap 
behind the omnibus, “ that you British people air the 
feather-headedest on the face o' the globe. It don't take 
much to set you goin' — that's a fact. AiT yet, you're that 
o-pinionated about the national solidity o' character, you 
make me laff. You air allays flyin' off the handle about 
things that a civilized infant wouldn't cry or smile at, and 
then you say, ‘We air a solid people — we air John Bull — 
we air — in all our doin's. If ever I fall real low in life, I'll 
take to lecturin', an' tell you what I think about you.” 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


47 


The incense of Fame had no effect upon Hiram, and in 
the course of a few weeks the “ star comique " of the Me- 
gatherium had found a new theme, and the raucous ditty 
of “ The Yankee Toff '' was forgotten. The conductors 
only grievance was that the post he held gave so little time 
for the pursuit of inquiry into wider and shorter avenues to 
fortune. His duties began at eight in the morning, and 
continued until half-past eleven at night. Holidays were 
few and far between; and Hiram was gradually growing 
readier and more ready to emancipate himself, when an 
event happened which influenced his whole career — an 
event the like of which has influenced more careers than 
any mathematician now alive would care to count. All 
sorts of assaults of Fate had Hiram submitted to, and he 
was beginning to think himself invulnerable, when this 
stroke came upon him, and he succumbed almost without 
an effort to avert it, or to recover from it. 

Hiram, it must be said, had rather a gallant and insinu- 
ating way with the ladies. His manner toward the fair sex 
was marked by a polish and a finish to which few gentle- 
men of his profession have aspired. Did Hiram behold a 
lady on the curb, the imperious cry of “Benk! Benk! 
Benk!'' which bade the traveling world be seated and no 
longer keep him waiting, was instantly modulated to a 
tone of gentleness, almost of confidence, “Benk, ma'am!” 
The tone had even a touch of slyness in it, as though it 
were a secret that the lady chose to go that way, and only 
she and Hiram knew it. There was something in the man- 
ner of his opening the omnibus door to a lady — a je ne sais 
quoi — an artistic tone of mind was somehow impressed 
upon the action. It soothed old women — it flattered plain 
women — young and pretty women were not unimpressed by 
it. 

It was his particular hobby to keep time like a ship's 
chronometer, and to arrive at every pausing-place and to 
leave it to the nearest possible fraction of a minute. This 
business-like peculiarity being noticed by people who had 
regular appointments at settled hours, he secured a con- 
stant clientele for both journeys, and, amongst other pas- 
sengers, he every day took up a young girl within a hundred 
yards of his own lodgings, and sat her down at a certain 
corner in Cheapside, reversing the process in the evening. 
She was pale and thin; but had that delicate and fragile 


48 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


prettiness which is noticeable in many girls of city breeding. 
She was scrupulously neat; but her garments indicated no 
great prosperity. Her mantle was threadbare, her gloves 
were mended; there was a look of waiting in the pale and 
patient face. Hiram regarding these things, felt almost a 
pang of pity when the morning or evening twopence drop- 
ped from the gloved thumb and finger into his own palm. 
It was hard to take it; and if the vehicle had not been an 
omnibus, but a carriage, and Hiram’s own, he would have 
set it at her service. The keen winds of autumn mornings 
were blowing clouds of dust about the streets, and she came 
no better clad. The threadbare mantle was more thread- 
bare; the neat little linen collar and the neat white cuffs 
showed woful signs of wear; when closely looked at, the 
gentle face grew paler and more sad. One morning Hiram 
missed the figure at the accustomed corner, and was amazed 
to find how much he missed it. Without a signal from 
him, the driver stopped at the corner at which the little 
milliner or shop-girl was accustomed to alight, and Hiram, 
in the act of ringing the ’bus-bell to set him going again, 
saw her walking down the by-street, and knew that the 
morning twopence had grown too precious to be missed. 

" I* 001 ' pretty creetur,” said the gentle-hearted Hiram. 
“ The ile’s dried up, an’ the barrel o’ meal’s pretty clean 
scraped, I reckon. Wonder now, if I could get her to 
drive gratis. Most likely she’d feel insulted if I asked her. ” 
Hiram, watching for the little figure at morning and even- 
ing in the dusty streets, saw it sometimes beneath a shabby 
umbrella, and sometimes so fluttered by the wind that it 
almost seemed she might be blown away bodily like a leaf. 

It so befell that Hiram on one of his rare holidays found 
himself sauntering down Cheapside at the hour at which 
the little girl began her journey home. There was the 
fragile figure with its hurried yet graceful step, before him. 
Hiram’s long legs kept him within easy distance, though 
he seemed to do no more than lounge. She went on, looking' 
neither to right nor left; and Hiram followed. He had 
ample time to study the thin garb, the worn shoes, unfit 
for the greasy pavement over which the little feet tripped 
so quickly; and his sharp eyes took note of every sign of 
poverty, and every struggle to be neat and to hide poverty 
away. She turned at the accustomed corner, and Hiram, 
with a shame-faced reluctance to play the spy upon her. 


VALENTINE STRAN GE. 


49 


coifld not refrain from following. Eight and left, and 
right and left again. Then she paused before a dingy door 
in a street of excessive shabbiness, and admitted herself 
with a latch-key. Hiram sauntered past the house, and 
saw a card above the door inscribed, “ A Furnished Room 
for a Single Gentleman.” 

“ That's near enough,” said Hiram. “I do not lay out 
to be a gentleman; but Fll bet Fm single; an mebbe I m 
as near the gentlemanly mark as they are to be found m 
this locality.” He sauntered past the house again. “Why 
not?” he asked himself. “ It's near my starting-point. 
I'll have a look at it any way.” He advanced to the door 
and knocked. The girl herself appeared, and looked at 
- him with a glance of no recognition. “ You have lodgings 
for a single man to let?” he said. 

“ Yes,” she responded. “Do you wish to see them? 
Her voice was gentle like her face, and had a tired tone in 
_ it, as the face had a tired look. 

Hiram answered “ Yes.” It was dusk within the house; 
and she left him for a moment and returned with a candle. 
Going toward him with the light upon her face, she looked 
more worn and fragile than before. She led the w ay up- 
stairs into a small room, neat and clean, but sparely fur- 


nished. 

“ What's the rent?” asked Hiram. 

“ Four shillings a week,” the girl answered. Her glance 
said so plainly: “Take it; oh, pray, do take it! that 
Hiram’s voice was quite husky when he answered: 

“ That's a very small rent for such a nice little room. 
When could I come in?” 

“Oh,” she said, “ at any time.” 

“ To-night?” suggested Hiram. 

“Yes,” she answered; and Hiram, producing a purse 
which was by this time fairly stocked, paid a week’s rent in 
advance. The girl's face brightened at the sight of the money 
as no face so young and tender ought to have brightened at 
so trivial a windfall, Hiram thought. “ Poor,” he said in- 
wardly: “Deadly poor!” There seemed nothing more to 
linger for. She held the candle aloft, to show him the 
way down-stairs; and when he looked at her a sort of halo 
rested on her hair. The weary expression of her face had 
changed to one that had a gleam of hope in it. “ Poor,' 
said Hiram, inwardly again — “deadly poor!” 


50 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


step Are y ° U the landlady? ” lie asked > turning at the £rst 
" M y “other rents the house,” she answered “ SLa ;« 

not ve, lreI1 . Bot yo „ ^ see her> u 

ill thfhalf al tVri ie said > and descended, but turned again 
explained g t0 a§k the name and «**«»,* be 

Slie set down the candle, and entered a room, the door - 
halk “ a moment X 

Sr ”“s 8 fc >i d H JT' ; ,!'*$»"*>> 1 dXbX. tal' 

Wiiiid him S 'i "' ll ;; I ' ,1 l and the door dosed 

emnci mm. Ihe lodgings he had hitherto used were not 
more than a quarter of a mile away, and Hiram’s whole 
lgmgs were easily packed in a second-hand carnet-b-m 
and a second-hand hat-box. The landlady clahned 7week! 

"** ”*•> - >* 1»0 # - emerged 

aA ^ ou will not die a millionaire,, young man ” lie said 
admonishing himself. “ You are not so Incumbered whh 
the pieces that you can afford to chuck ’em blindfold But 
Hiram, do you know what that little creetur’s face slid 
when you counted them four shillin’s down? ' Here ’ it 
Z d ‘ “ pl ?Z f a book-' here is an onexpected-meal ”’ 

“ HhaT” f ef01 ’ e t i 1C last w ; or( b and breathed it half aloud, 
i am, he went on, “how many ordinary-lookin’ fe 

lTve bv^ H J0U drove /, ince I 011 adopted the pro-fesli you 
look It W f a ^ ° f em 8 be <? ^at poor S’s a pit/ to - 

over HirZ? fw° W ° f em liave V™ yearned 

1 nam v,, Com 1 e now > how many? Don't you be 
ldicalous. It s no kind-heartedness in you. It’s a pretty 
face and a nice manner that’s fetched you so, sir P Have 
the murder out, Hiram, have it out! tou’ye fell in love 
you have, an’ you don’t know no more about the vomm 
woman you ve fell in love with than a yeller do» in fori 
stantinople knows about 'Pilgrim’s Progress.”’ ° ° 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


51 


CHAPTER V. 

“YOU WERE TIRED OE ME, AND WISHED ME DEAD.” 

It was a settled creed with the employes of the firm that 
the house of Lumby and Lumby was to go on forever. 
The younger hands and heads whose owners discharged 
subordinate duties, figured and thought in lines of routine 
so fixed and settled — in office hours — by the inexorable 
Garling, that all chances of mutation seemed far away. 
And Mr. Garling himself had so long been a part of the 
house that to him the house might well seem fixed and 
solid as the hills. Mr. Garling, though under fifty, was an 
old-world man to look at. He wore high collars of the 
fashion of a score of years ago, and a black satin stock of 
equal date; and he carried his watch in a fob with a bunch 
of seals dangling from it, as gentlemen in the City had 
done in his boyhood, if ever Garling had been a boy — 
which seemed doubtful. For thirty years and more, his 
respectable, square-toed boots had worn the stones between 
his rooms in Fleet Street and the Gresham Street thresh- 
old of the house of Lumby and Lumby. 

Mr. Garling’s father had practiced the hair-dresser’s art 
in Fleet Street. There was still a hair-dresser in the old 
house, and Garling went on living there. For thirty years 
he had been a familiar figure at Lumby and Lumby ’s, and 
yet a figure with Avhose inner personality no man had ever 
been familiar. We all go shrouded more or less, and 
nobody knows much about the most communicative of us. 
But Garling had been self-contained in his school-days; and 
in manhood his self -containment grew to look like secrecy; 
and with approaching age his secrecy grew more profound.. 
He never spoke to anybody when he could help it; and, 
when compelled to speak, he said as little as possible. No 
one ever fancied that Garling had more than other people 
to conceal. “It was Garling’s way ” to be close; it was 
Garling’s way to take snuff secretly, as though he hoped to 
find in it some ground for an indictment against his tobac- 
conist; it was his way to hang above his ledger secretly, as 
though it contained mysteries; it was his way to secrete 
himself within himself as he walked the very streets, as 


52 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


though he were a suspicious circumstance, and his bein 
there a thing unauthorized: it was his way to dine in 
secret corner in a secret cjiop-house in a secret court, as 
though his meals were conspiracies in imminent danger of 
detection. All these were Garling's ways, and were openly 
canvassed and laughed at as eccentric — in Garling's ab- 
sence — by the most junior of the junior clerks. 

If Garling had relatives, he kept them secret, like him- 
self. There was a general impression that he was rich; 
and that indeed seemed like enough, he earned so much 
and spent so little. P* house was wealthy, and disposed 
to be generous where it trusted; and it had trusted Garling 
now for nearly twenty years implicitly, and had had its trust 
rewarded. How many nights had he sat at his desk poring 
above vast ledgers when the offices were silent? How many 
hours of voluntary time had he thrown into Time's gulf at 
home in his own rooms, sitting immersed in figures, with 
shaggy black brows drawn downward, making secrets of 
his eyes, as great schemes for the benefit of the house sim- 
mered behind his bulbous, wrinkled forehead? Ho man 
could tell, and Garling never told. He was the very jewel 
of a servant. Under his fostering care, the great house 
grew greater, and its solid foundations stretched out fur- 
ther and further, and its wide arms, like those of Briareus, 
reached forth a hundred ways at once, and drew in money. 
People, who were unfitted to understand Garling's character, 
set it down as a thing not to be doubted that he himself 
profited directly by the extension of the firm's business — 
that he had a fixed share in the profits, or a commission on 
the increase of sound business done: and these common- 
place men pooh-poohed the idea of such engrossing and un- 
selfish enthusiasm as other men believed in. But Mr. 
Lumby himself was wont to say that Garling's financial 
genius was wasted on the petty concerns of a mere business 
firm, and that he ought to have been perpetual Chancellor 
of the Imperial Exchequer. He said often that Garling's 
genius for figures was just as lofty as Mozart's genius for 
music, or Shakespeare's for play-writing, and that it would 
be satisfied, even if he took to logarithms for pastime. 

And so under G arling's management the house of Lumby 
and Lumby solidly thrived and grew, and Garling kept 
himself a secret. 

Living as he did at a total outlay of not more than two 


bO 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


53 


hundred pounds per annum, it was not a thing to be sur- 
prised at that Garling had a solid balance at his bankers*. 
Nor was it in the least a thing to wonder at that he should 
invest his money on his own account, or that when he had 
drawn a large check, he should invariably pay in a larger 
a short time afterward. The balance in this way grew 
more than respectable, and Garling bought shares and sold, 
and always profited. His bankers had a high respect for 
him. Everybody respected him. A man who does his 
duty in a fashion so exemplary, and who makes money also 
on his own account, is bound to be respected. 

On a certain evening in late summer, Mr. Garling sat at 
his own office-room with a ponderous tome before him con- 
taining many columns of straight-ruled figures. The house 
was quiet, the street was quiet, the gas made a little sing- 
ing noise which in the stillness was clearly audible. There 
was yet a tranquil light outside, but the chief cashier’s of- 
fice was always dull, and he burned gas there nearly all day 
long. Everybody else had gone home an hour ago, save 
the night-watchman, who slept on the premises, and he 
had but newly arrived. In a distant part of London, a 
lanky, dusty, way-worn figure was at that moment walking 
from street to street on the lookout for lodgings. The 
lanky figure was on its way to take part in that little story 
to which the cashier belonged; but neither Mr. Garling nor 
Hiram Search was likely to guess as much. Can you , 
reader, guess who is coming to you out of to-morrow — out 
of next year — out of any cranny in the vast gulf of Time 
and Circumstance, to blend a life with yours? 

Hiram strolled on three miles away, and the cashier 
meditated. The bushy black brows, down-drawn and 
making secrets of his eyes, were for once unburdened with 
arithmetic. As he sat with arms folded, head bent, back 
bowed, and feet depending straight downward from his 
knees, he looked, taken in profile, like a human note of 
interrogation. Set after what secret question? 

Coming slowly out of the maze of his own thoughts, he 
drew a letter from his pocket and read it through. It was 
addressed to “E. Martial, Esq./* under the care of that 
hair-dresser above whose shop Mr. Garling had residential 
chambers; and it was written in a woman’s hand. 

“ I will not approach you,** so the letter ran, “ with any 


54 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


attempt to remind you of the affection which you professed 
so many years ago. That I relied upon it, and that you 
placed me false, is all I care for you to remember now 
But I will have justice clone to Mary. I have besought you 
long enough., and I do not wish to threaten even now. But 
I am not the less resolved, and what I can do for mv 
daughter shall be done. ” 

This letter bore no date or name of place, no preface of 
any sort, and had no signature; but Mr. Garling had no 
doubt about the writer or the place of her abode. He read 
the letter once or twice, frowning more and more heavily 
and then having folded it and restored it to his pocket, 
lie closed the ponderous tome before him, took down 
his hat from a peg above his head, turned out the gas, 
and left the room, locking the door behind him— 
all in a slow, deliberate, customary way. Lumby and 

- Eumb\ s central offices were not without a suspicion of 
dry-rot in their musty atmosphere; but the cashier drew 
in the air in the corridor, as though it refreshed him after 
the close heat of his own room; and making his way with 
the sure step of custom down the dusky stairs, he nodded 
gravely, in answer to the watchman’s parting salutation, 
and came upon the street. Quitting Gresham Street he 
reached Cheapside, turned his back upon St. Paul’s, and 
walked toward the Exchange, and voicelessly hailing a 
passing omnibus, rode on to Whitechapel, and alighted at 
a street corner. He walked slowlv down the by-street, and 
then turned right and left, and right and left again. He 

- paused before a dingy door in a street of excessive shabbi- 
ness, and knocked. Looking upward through the dusk 
whilst he waited a response, he could just read the inscrip- 
tion on the card in the fanlight, “ Furnished Room for a 
Single Gentleman. ” The door was opened by a girl with 
a face of fragile beauty. She was poorly but neatly dressed, 
and had a pretty figure, too slender and delicate for health. 
He stood so long regarding her in silence, that after asking 
bis business and receiving no answer she shrunk back to 

- close the door; but he raised a hand as if to forbid her and 
asked dryly: “ Your mother is in?" 

“ Yes, sir," answered the girl, 

“Show me to her," he said quietly, and entered. 

“ Y hat name shall I say?" she asked timidly, as if afraid 
of him. 


VALEKTIISTE STRAN GE. 


55 


“ Never mind the name,” he responded. “ Show me to 

Ji er# ^ 

She stood irresolute; but he stepped beyond her and 
tapped with his knuckles at a door leading from the nar- 
row hall, and a thin voice crying, “ Come in, he entered. 
The girl followed him, and stood in the door-way. Seated, 
in an arm-chair beyond the fire-place was a woman, whose 
likeness to the girl was so strong as to betray their relation- 
ship at once. The room was bare and shabby, and was 
littered with odds and ends of cloth. A pile of loose folds 
of cloth lay upon the central table, and a piece of cloth 
trailed from the woman’s lap upon the hearth-rug. She 
had been busy sewing, and the needle was arrested at the 
thread’s length, and stayed there when the cashier entered. 

“ You did not expect that I should be so punctual, he 
said. His voice was stiff and measured, and his manner . 

“ No,” she answered him, speaking with evident effort. 

He removed his hat and took a chair; and turning lus 
face slowly toward the girl, he signed to her to leave the 
room. She obeyed with a look of some bewilderment. 
When she had gone, he drew the chair a little nearer to the __ 
empty fire-place, and throwing one leg over the other, sat 
in silence. The woman looked at him helplessly, as if ex- 
pecting him to speak first; but he surveyed her quietly 
from beneath bent brows of habitual calculation, and said 
nothing. But for the wrinkles which many hours of busi- 
ness-plotting had left upon it, his face was almost expres- _ 
sionless, and he sat so still that he might have been a 
statue. The woman confronting him with uncertain 
glances, never long continued, still held the needle at the - 
thread’s length, and when her eyes had sought his half a 
dozen times, and each time had dropped again, the shac«.ov 
of a smile flitted across his face and died away. 

“You received my letter?” she said, at length, when 
the silence had grown unbearable. He nodded in quiet 
affirmation. **Why are you here?” she asked, aftei a long 
pause. 

“ To answer it,” he returned. 

She looked at him once again, and could read neither 
threat nor promise in his impassive face. ee How, she . 
asked 

“ In this way,” responded the cashier, uncrossing his 


56 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


1 egs and Jeaning forward. “ By saying briefly and once for 
ail that 1 will take my way, and that you may take yours, 
as you chose to take it long ago. " 

As / chose to take it?" she asked, in a voice of amaze- 
ment. 


“ By telling you once for all that I will listen to no en- 
treaties; that I will not be moved by any threats; that I 
am neither to be cajoled nor shaken.” He fell back into 
his chair, crossed his legs again, and regarded her fixedly 
once more. She made no answer; but sitting with her 
hands lying loosely in her lap, she looked the picture of 
helplessness and despair. After a long pause, he arose, 
took Ins hat, and made a movement to the door. With a 
_ suddenness that made him start backward, she swept across 
the room and stood before him. 

+i ' A° l ii Slm11 not ,g° ! ” sl3e cried, wringing her hands, as 
though they wrestled with each other, and each had much 
ado to keep the other down. He looked at her darkly and 
C -?ii “ i after that one backward movement, stood stock 
still, without a word. “ I will have justice,” she said wildly 
- a ^ lc ^ rapidly. “ You shall not leave your wife and child to 
starve and drudge year after year, whilst vou heap up 
money for no reason. ” He kept his eyes upon her face, and 
made no answer. “Are you made of stone?” she cried. 

“ lon g have I suffered? How long am I to suffer 5 
Are we to live here till we die?” 

“ Live where yon please,” he answered, and made a 
movement to the door; but she confronted him still. 

“ What wrong did I ever do you, that you treat me so?” 
she moaned. 


“ Still playing at innocence?” he sneered, dryly. 

“ Playing at innocence?” Something of his ‘own look 
darkened her face. “ I have never needed to play at in- 
nocence; but you have played at suspicion for your own 
wicked purposes. You were tired of me, and wished me 
dead. ” 

“ Devoutly,” he interjected, with no touch of anger or 
ot satire in his tone. There might have been a cruel 
humor m tne word, but neither face nor voice bore sign 
of it. 8 

“And so,” she went on, “you pretended to suspect me, 
and ioi ged a chain of lies about my steps, and hemmed mo 
in, and bound me down with them." 


VALEKTINE STRANGE. 57 

“ Why did you leave me?” he demanded, in the same 
dry tones. 

“ There is no one here, Edward,” she answered, with a 
weary bitterness. “ You can not justify yourself to your- 
self, or to me, and there is no listener here to play a part to.” 

“Why did you leave me?” he asked again, intones a 
ghost might have used, they were so passionless beside her 
' anger, her weariness, and her despair. 

“ You drove me from your house with threats.” 

“ Of what? Of exposure, shall we say?” She moved 
her head from side to side in a very rage of helplessness. 
“ You left me — under what circumstances you remember. 
I offered to support your child even then. I made you 
such provision as my means allowed.” She did not know 
that his salary at that time had been eight hundred pounds 
a year; but she remembered that the allowance thus re- 
called to mind had been one of fen shillings a week. “ Why 
did I withdraw that allowance?” 

“Because,” she cried, “you knew I had lived apart from 
you long enough to compromise myself if I should en- 
deavor to make good a legal claim against you. Because 
you knew I loved my own fair fame too well to have it 
smeared by my liusband*s jmblic perjuries. Because I was 
altogether helpless, and in your power. ” 

“We have lived apart still longer now/* he answered 
coldly. “ I trust you love your fair fame as well as ever.” 
The taunt so wrung her that she moaned aloud. “Are 
you less helpless nov^?” She made no reply, and he repeated 
his question: “ Are you less helpless now?” 

“ I am as helpless/* she responded then, weaving her 
thin fingers together and dragging them apart, “ as any 
" creature in the world. ” 

“ So I believe/* he said — “so I believe.” Saying this, 
he took snuff, turning a little apart from her in his secret 
way, but keeping his hard eyes upon her sideways. In 
spite of the customary mask of no expression which he had 
made it the business of his life to wear, there was a look of 
cruel triumph in his face as he regarded her. The busi- 
ness-like acquiescence of his tone so cut the woman to the 
quick that she cast her hands wildly upward, as if appeal- 
ing to Heaven against him, and burst into a tempest of 
tears. “And so,” he said, taking snuff again, “our in- 
terview closes as all our interviews used to close. ** 


58 


VALEXTIXE STRAXGE. 


There is cement that is hardened by contact with water. 
Garling might have been made of it, so little effect had 
tears upon him. He brushed his hat upon his sleeve, and 
cast an uninterested look about the room. Then with a 
calm “ Good-evening,” he left the apartment, closing the 
door behind him, and having reached the street, walked back 
to the main road, hailed a passing omnibus, and sat secretly 
in one corner of it until within 'thirty yards of his own 
door, at which time a disaster, already recorded, befell the 
conductor. It has been mentioned that one or two of the 
passengers chose to profit by the opportunity thus afforded 
for the exercise of the virtue called economy. Garling was 
one of them. Twopence saved was twopence gained, to 
Garling. He saw the injured man driven away — for, secret 
as he was, he felt an interest in the events of ~ the day, like 
other people — and then let himself in by his latch-key, and 
went upstairs to his own chambers. 

Arrived there, he lit his lamp, placed it on a large circu- 
lar table in the middle of the room, and unlocking a safe, 
drew from it a ledger, certain pages of which he studied 
with deep interest. It was after midnight when he locked 
the ledger up again, and paced once or twice along the 
room with his hands behind him. 

“ It is almost time,” he thought, “ that the decisive step 
should be taken. Almost time! But I have not had 
patience for so many years, to be precipitate now. ” He 
took up his lamp, and retired to his bedroom, where he be- 
gan to undress. Suddenly he drew himself bolt upright, 
and sounded his chest with his knuckles, bending his head 
to listen at each tap. “ Why, you are sound enough,” he 
said aloud, “ to live till ninety.” Then he drew the lamp 
to the side of a looking-glass, and steadfastly regarded his 
features. He was not a handsome man, and never had 
been, and from the strange contortions he made before the 
mirror, he did not seem to be engaged in any search for 
facial beauties now. “ You look hardy and robust, my 
friend,” he said, speaking aloud again; “ but you may be 
unsound somewhere for all that. Consult a doctor, my 
friend — consult a doctor.” He sat for a minute or two, 
nodding absently at his own reflection in the mirror, and 
inwardly repeating this fragment of advice. Then he arose, 
finished his disrobing, turned down the lamp, and went to 
bed. Ho compunction for the widowed wife disturbed his 




YALEHTHSTE STRANGE. 


59 


dreams. It was natural, perhaps, that Garling, who lived 
so much among ’it, should dream of money. Natural or 
not, he dreamed of it; dreamed of it in orderly piles of 
glittering rouleaux, in stacks of crisp bank-notes, in shelv- 
ing heaps of wonderful broad pieces, looking as if — as in 
Chaucer's story — a cart of gold had overturned its load. 
No man is responsible for his dreams, and if Garling in his 
visions knew that all this money was not his, and yet 
counted it over, and hugged it, and rolled in it, and meant 
to keep it, that fact surely left no tarnish on the bright 
honesty of his waking hours. Garling had had millions 
through his hands, and his books had never once been out 
by so much as a halfpenny. 

His dreams caused him no uneasiness when he awoke and 
remembered them; but before dressing, he went through 
the singular pantomime of the evening with some exten- 
sions, tapping and sounding himself all over the body, and 
listening with great intentness. “ You are sound enough," 
he said at the close of this examination, “ to live to be a 
hundred!" He dressed, as he always dressed, with scrupul- 
ous neatness, breakfasted at his customary coffee-house, and 
walked solemnly to business. At mid-day he took a cab 
to the complete amazement of the messenger seated, in the 
hall. The messenger had known him for a score of years, 
and had never seen him do such a thing before. The cab 
bore Garling to the residence of a well-known physician, 
who — the stream of morning patients having run dry — 
was in the act of buttoning his gloves in the hall, prepara- 
tory to a drive to such patients as could not visit him . 

“I can give you five minutes," said the man of science. 

| Mr. Garling nodded, to signify that that would serve his 
turn, and followed into the consulting-room. 

“I want to know," said the cashier, “how long I may 
reasonably hope to live." The physician opened his eyes 
gently, and raised his eyebrows with something of an air of 
protest. “lama lonely man," said Mr. Qarling. “If 
I sink all I have in an annuity calculated for twenty years, 
am I likely to see the limit of the time, or ought I to make 
the calculation briefer?" 

The physician went to work. He jDressed Garling here. 
Did that hurt him? Not a bit. He pressed him there. 
Did that hurt him? Not at all. He listened to his breath- 


60 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


ing — he listened to the heating of his heart — he asked half 
a dozen direct and simple questions. 

“ You are as sound as a roach/* said the physician. 
“ There is nothing less certain than the duration of life; 
but there is every chance that old age may square accounts 
with you.** 

“ My life/* said Garling questioningly, “ is worth more 
than twenty years?** 

“In all probability — yes/* said the physician. “ There 
is a long chapter of accidents, and no man can be sure. ** 

“ Of course not/* responded Garling; and paying his fee, 
he buttoned up his coat, and went by cab to his chop-house, 
returning to business afoot at the usual hour. 

He sat late at the offices that night, with the big ledger 
before him. His elbows rested on its leaves, and his hands 
made blinkers for his eyes, and kept his face a secret. And 
his dreams of last night were with him, and waking dreams 
of power and luxury that went beyond them. 

“Twenty years to live it out in/* said Garling, in an 
almost voiceless whisper — “twenty years!” 


CHAPTER YI. 

“HALF A MILLION OF MONEY IS SOMETHING CONSIDER- 
ABLE.** 

Mr. Jolly senior was not a wealthy man, as times go, 
and his daughter Constance was a trouble to him. The 
new resident at the Grange had a great faculty for laying 
on other people*s shoulders the burdens which belonged to 
his own; but there was no one to whom he could so relegate 
Constance. Mr. Jolly characterized his daughter as “a 
reasonably good-looking sort of girl/* and expected her to 
marry some day; and he sighed for that day*s arrival as the 
Arab pilgrim sighs for the desert well. If he committed 
extravagances, they were condoned by conscience as neces- 
sary preparations for Constance*s settlement, though he did 
penance for every one of them in bilious growlings. The 
Grange itself was a matrimonial fly-trap. Horses, carriages, 
servants were matrimonial lures. Mr. Jolly hated keejiing 
house, and pined for his deserted chambers in the Albany. 
But Constance must have a basis for her operations, and 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


61 


the Grange served. If she succeeded in hooking nobody 
during the off-season, a town house must be taken, and her 
father groaned to think of the expenses. 

Mr. Jolly was a proud man too, and in spite of all his 
growling, would not have things done meanly. His was 
not the pride of wealth, for he had little. It was not the 
pride of intellect, for he had less. It was not the pride of 
birth, for he had no glorious ancestry to boast of, and 
was merely the eldest son of a country gentleman, and the 
descendant of many country gentlemen of small note in 
their own day, and no remembrance after it! Mr. Jolly’s 
pride was centered in himself. He was proud of himself 
for being himself, and might have been puzzled to have 
found a better reason. Some of his friends had told him 
that he ought to be proud of his daughter; so he became 
a little prouder of himself, if that were possible, for having 
such a daughter. He was not proud of anything but him- 
self; but if he owned anything that another man would 
have been proud of, it swelled his own consequence in his 
own eyes. Yet, it was curious to notice that with all his 
pride he fawned upon a title as few men in this favored 
country and in these republican times can find it in their 
hearts to do. 

The father’s condition of mind was not unfavorable to 
Gerard’s chances— if Gerard could have known. The only 
son of a wealthy British merchant was not to be despised 
as a possible husband for Constance; and Mr. Jolly had 
booked Gerard in the tablets of his memery with half a 
score of others more or less eligible. Gerard was unknown 
to trade — the senior Lumby had almost altogether with- 
drawn from active participation in it; it was rumored on 
the best authority that the firm was wealthy even amongst 
wealthy London firms. There was nobody in the county 
—excepting a middle-aged bachelor baronet of very old 
family, and a young lord whose title had begun with his 
father — the contemplation of whose possible advances so 
filled Mr. Jolly with pleasant hopes. And Gerard, before 
three months had gone over his head after that memorable 
chance meeting in the lane, had given ample evidence of 
his enslaved condition. Sir Fawdry Fawdry made no ad- 
vances, though he permitted his admiration to declare itself 
openly. That youthful nobleman, Lord Solitair, came and 
went, seeming uncertain of his own mind, if indeed he 


62 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Sed^litfri 0 ! w'V mind > and finally retired « re- 
g An tl llk e Carlyle s Blumme, “to wed some richer.” 

All the while our stricken Gerard, after the manner of 

mid er reiarded 111 ' & des P ondin f eye upon his own chances, 
f a ^g^rded all men as rivals. The summer and the 
largest; went by, and winter grew on apace. Then came 
the hunting season; and Constance rode to the meet now 
and again with her father, and Gerard’s opportunities ,n- 
Scftt the Gerai ' d - anJwould not and 

Wdr* r l\f! r i hlS Sweetheart as a holder man would 
. e . ^ 01 ] e ’ . so ^ iat *? e wa s compelled to trust much to cun- 
fi® v ised accidents for occasional meetings. Con- 
stance did not follow the hounds; and Gerard, compelled 
to leave her side when the fox broke cover, was unhappy 

p^Z'hilKo Joy eve " “ " ,he cta >” 

swa**®* 

JeLTSS "• Wi,h y0, '" S Lomb ^ in, 

Constance. 3 '° U thmk he ' S a little Sauehe, papa?” asked 
Mr. Jolly smiled, his brown withered face wrinkling like 
Se fnd° I" 1611 ' Per ^ s so ’ my dear— perhaps ^ S 

I' “ You 1 leJm,; have 

Consteilee. Sll0l ' 1<l think more t]la “ another?” asked 

“There are conditions,” said Mr. Jolly, his eves wrink- 
ling m a still broader smile, “ under which young men in- 
variably appear a little awkward.” g 

SCST^' 6 ' Tou « - , “ i " 1 - » 

Hei father instantaneously became serious. “Have T 
flult? b ” en mistaken? ” he askeck “Have I been once at 

•u You were mistaken, ’’said Constance, tossing: her nrettv 

head disdainfully, “ about Sir Fawdry Fawdry. You were 

at fault about Lord Solitair.” 3 eie 

“My dear,” returned Mr. Jolly, “1 only profess to 
read symptoms. I do not profess to be a prophet. Sir 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


63 


Fawdry and young Solitair were both deeply smitten — 

but — "" . i 

“ Nonsense !"" said Constance ungraciously. 

“But,"" pursued her father, disregarding this interjec- 
tion, “ people marry nowadays for money. Your face is 
your fortune, Constance. At least it is the better part of 
it, and men know it. Your brother Reginald must be pro- 
vided for. By all law and justice, I am bound to deal 
well by Reginald, And you, my dear, must do as well as 
you can. Meantime, I am favorably impressed with young 
Lumby — very favorably impressed indeed/" 

“ Very well, papa/" returned Constance; “we shall 
know in time. I am not skilled in the reading of symp- 
toms; but this affair will probably end like the rest."" 

“ My dear,"" cried her father, “ you are ridiculous— posi- 
tively ridiculous. One would think, to hear you talk, that, 
instead of being in the very freshness of your youth, you 
were an old woman, and had had a life of disappoint- 
ments."" 

“Papa,"" said Constance severely, as one whose mmd 
was made up past altering, “ the days of romance are gone 
and over. Sir Croesus Croesus marries Lady Midas, a fat 
widow with a lap-dog, and admires the poor pretty Phyllis 
from a safe distance."" 

“And what becomes,"" asked Mr. Jolly, “of poor pretty 
Phyllis?"" 

“ That depends,"" said Constance. “ Perhaps a Gnome 
from Staffordshire, or a Cyclops from Wales, runs away 
with her— that is, if she is lucky; perhaps, if she is silly 
enough, she marries Corydon, and lives in a cottage, and 
cultivates the virtues of cottage life — envy and ill-temper 
and vicious headache. Perhaps Corydon jilts her— being 
wise in time — and marries Lady Croesus, a second time 


widowed."" . 

“And so, Romance is born again,"" said Mr. Jolly with 
his wrinkled smile. 

“For Lady Croesus,"" said Constance. “And there is 
the moral of my song, papa."" 

“ Which is— ?"" 

“ That when you have married twice for money, you 
may, if you have survived that double ordeal, marry once 
for liking. 

“And so, Romance is born again,"" said her father a 


64 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


second time. “ It is impossible," he quoted, with a dim 
remembrance of his classic days, “ to expel Nature even 
with a pitchfork. " Constance laughed, and they rode on 
a little while in silence. c ‘ Y ou don't dislike young Lumby, 
do you?” he as*ked at the close of this pause, turning a 
somewhat anxious face upon her. 

“ No," she answered carelessly. “He is well enough. " 
Then there was another pause. 

“ My dear/' said Mr. Jolly, in a confidential tone, press- 
ing his horse so near to hers, that his knee touched the off- 
side flap of her saddle, “young Lumby can not have less 
finally coming to him than half a million. Even in these 
days of huge fortunes, half a million of money is something 
considerable. " Mr. Jolly, like many men of limited in- 
come, had permitted himself to think of colossal fortunes 
more than was altogether wholesome for him, and his tone 
in speaking of money was always large and unconcerned. 
He thought of “a few odd millions" like a Chancellor of 
the Exchequer, and would speak of them in the same vein. 

“ Considerable indeed," returned Constance, who in 
monetary matters was severely practical. 

“He is richer than Sir Fawdry," said her father, “and 
probably as well to do as young Solitair. " 

Mr. dolly's veneration for the aristocracy naturally dis- 
played itself in familiarity. I have no desire to be obscure. 
Let me explain. Mr. Jolly in a lord's presence fawned upon 
the lord; but in the lord's absence, he used his name in an 
every-day fashion, to feed his own sense of his own impor- 
tance. And a lesser reverence than his own for lordship 
could not have made the title seem important enough to do 
that. Therefore — so conrplicated a thing is snobbery — a 
most genuine reverence and worship bred a sometime seem- 
ing irreverence of speech. I am sometimes almost per- 
suaded that if our House of Peers could guess the sum of 
snobbery which their presence creates among us, they would 
of their own free act abolish themselves, and spare the 
country much republican oratory. 

“ Papa," said Constance, “there is a vulgar fable about 
an old woman who counted her chickens before they were 
hatched. But," she added, smiling again, “the wisdom of 
our ancestors is wasted upon you — altogether wasted. You ~ 
were counting already, you stupid dear, what could be done 
with half a million. I know you were. " 


VALEHTIKE STRAHGE. 


65 


Mr. Jolly absolutely blushed. That had been indeed the 
mental effort of the moment, and he had seen his daughter 
enthroned in Lumby Hall, and himself freed of all anxi- 
eties. “ One counts many unhatched chickens,” said he, 
recovering himself. “ It is the privilege of mankind to 
hope. When I see you settled, my dear,” he added, al- 
most with pathos, “ I can die in peace.” 

“ Pray,” said Constance, “ make the settlement less re- 
mote. ” 

The satire of this feminine thrust was too subtle for Mr. 
Jolly, but in the fullness of hope he took a more cheerful 
tone. “ Croesus is coming along, my dear — plain Mr. 
Croesus; but not much the worse for that, after all.” 

“ Croesus,” said Constance, “ will marry Lady Midas, as 
already arranged. ” 

“ And Phyllis?” said her sire, reverting to the former 
parable. 

“ And Phyllis will die an old maid.” There was not a 
creature in sight in all the widespread fields. A hundred 
yards away, the lane in which they rode dipped suddenly 
with a curve, and the hedge rose high, thick with prickly 
holly-leaves and red berries. The air was as blithe and 
soft as that of a spring day. “ A southerly wind and a 
cloudy sky,” with rifts of soft blue in it, and the fresh, 
gentle breath of the soil, and once or twice across the fields 
the tongue of the distant pack proclaimed it a hunting 
morning. “ Phyllis,” said Constance, roguishly, “ will die 
an old maid.” And there, in the complete loneliness of 
fields, she began to sing: 

4t Ilka lassie lias a laddie; 

Nane, they say, lia’e I; 

But a’ the lads they smile at me 
When comm’ through the rye.” 

Her voice was just as perfect as her face — a very rich and 
mellow mezzo-soprano, not of so rare a type as her beauty, 
but as perfect of its kind. Now, it happened, as if set 
there as a warning to all young ladies against the practice 
of singing in the open air, which, though natural to youth 
and good spirits, is opposed to the dictates of fashionable 
reserve — it happened that a young man stood at that 
moment in the hollow beyond the high hedge of holly. 
He had alighted from his horse, and was anxiously inspect- 


66 


VALEHTINE STRAHGE. 


in g a hoof, and making himself a little muddy in the 
process, when the first notes of the sweet voice struck upon 
his ear. He raised himself, let go the horse's foot, and 
listened. The little carol was sung with exquisite grace 
and archness, and the young man smiled. 

“If your face matches your voice," he said to himself, 
“you won't have to mourn long, young lady." When the 
voice ceased, the sound of hoof -beats on the soft road be- 
came audible; and down the slope and round the bend 
in the lane came Mr. Jolly and his daughter. Now, no 
man can paint in words a pretty woman; and even Leigh 
Hunt's charming apology for failure will not greatly help 
him : 

“ Let each man fancy, looking down the brow 
He loves the best, and thinks he sees it now.” 

For some of us have loved homely women in our time — 
what a provision of Nature that is to be thankful for! — and 
have found a beauty beyond beauty, in plain faces. But 
if no word-painter can show you a reliable, recognizable 
portrait of a pretty girl, what is to be done when he comes 
to actual loveliness? What can he do beyond pleading the 
inutility of his art — its utter helplessness? Vet, I would 
fain give you some semblance to the picture to carry in 
your mind. Fancy, then, a form — not too Juno-like, but 
ripe and round — clad in a habit of black broadcloth, with 
scarcely a crease or wrinkle from the waist upward; a form 
which swayed with the horse's motion, and yet preserved a 
sense of firmness— the little gloved hands low down with a 
look of mastery at rest; the little hat raking forward 
slightly, with an air not altogether coquettish, on a head 
altogether stately, with one superb knot of living gold be- 
hind; a face charming in all its lines, and fresh with hues 
of health and airs of heaven, and on the face a little touch 
of fun, of pride, of wonder — a startled look, with hauteur 
and humor in it, at remembrance of the song and the 
sudden encountering of this unexpected stranger. And be- 
neath this vision, a steed of price, who bore the lady as 
though he loved her and were proud of her, with high 
stately step, free yet mincing, like a cavalier in a minuet. 
This was the sight which broke on the eyes of Valentine 
Strange, when Constance and her father — whom,, by the 
way, you may if you choose, leave out of the picture — 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 67 

came dancing round the holly hedge at the bend of the 
lane. 

Yal raised his hat. “I beg your pardon/’ he said, ad- 
dressing Mr. Jolly, “but my horse has caught a stone, and 
gone dead-lame. I see that you have a hoof-picker on your 
saddle; and I should be awfully obliged if you would lend 
it to me for a moment. I’m sure I’m very sorry to detain 
you.” 

“ Not at all,” said Mr. Jolly, fumbling at the strap 
which held the hook, with his gloved fingers. 

“Allow me,” said Val; and possessing himself of the 
hoof-picker, deftly whipped out the stone from the horse’s 
hoof, and restored the little imjfiement to its place with a 
cordial “ Thank you.” 

“ Not at all,” said Mr. Jolly, once more with great majes- 
ty. Constance had ridden on during this pause, and was per- 
haps two hundred yards ahead, when Mr. J oily, returning 
Yal’s salute, rode on again, and in a little space overtook 
her. Mr. Strange meantime having inspected all his gear- 
ing, remounted, and went rocketing up the lane in pursuit. 

“ What a beauty!” said Val to himself. “ I must have 
another look at her.” Beaching the lady and her father, 
he flourished olf his hat once more, and drew in his horse 
to a walk. Want of self-possession had never been among 
Val’s failings. “Immensely obliged to you, sir,” he said. 
“ It was a most fortunate thing for me that you came by 
just then. ” 

Mr. Jolly bowed, and branched off at a lane which bore 
to the left. “ Good-morning,” from Mr. Jolly. 

“Good-morning. And again, thanks,” from Val. 


} 


CHAPTEK VII. 

“OH,” SAID GERARD, “THAT’S JOLLY’S SISTER.” 

During the foregoing brief colloquy, Mr. Strange had 
kept his eyes upon the lady’s face, and had confirmed his 
first impression of her beauty. Constance was not unaware 
of his glance— ^what young woman would have been? — and 
Val’s aspect was not unpleasing. He was evidently a 
gentleman; and then Constance, who was as little vain as 
most really beautiful women really are, remembered that his 


68 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


horse s head had been turned in the direction from which 

wi iT i ia ? c °? 1<3 ’ aud she knew ' Perfectly well that he 
had followed for the express purpose of looking at her once 
more. Men often did that sort of thing. And she had no 
especial resentment for it. Feminine human nature likes 
to be admired; and, for that matter, even the very ugliest 
male amongst us is not superior to the feeling. 

Mr. Jolly had no sooner settled in the county, than he had 
begun to inform himself of the position and expectations of 
every eligible parti within its limits— as indeed became a 
tatlier who was anxious that his daughter should be happily 
settled and out of his way. In the course of his researches, 
e had lighted on the fact of the existence of one Valentine 
otrange, who was reputed to be the wealthiest man of those 
parts, an orphan whose great estates had been nursed 
through a long minority by guardians careful of his in- 
teiests, and who now had undisputed control of .his own. 

wi i 01 7 Iaade ln 1 uh ; ies about Valentine Strange, and 
had learned that he was a bachelor of marriageable age, and 
not unlikely to marry, and had even discovered at last that 
the said Valentine was a friend of his own son’s. He had 
especially desired that Valentine Strange should be made 
tree oi his house; but that young gentleman having per- 
ver^ely gone away a-yachting, there was no more to be said 
about the matter, and such matrimonial traps as could 
tairly be laid must be laid in his absence. Mothers with 
marriageable daughters, and they only, will be able to 
sympathize with Mr. Jolly. He had no wife to plot and 
p an fop him. He had all a fond father’s desire to see his 
daughter happily established; and apart from that, the 
girl was an expense and a nuisance. Therefore, he would 
have been sorely vexed could he have guessed that to-day 
he had dismissed the wealthy Mr. Strange, the marriageable 
Mr. otrange, so cavalierly. 

Mr. Jolly had his grand manner, and when he assumed 
it, he was as frosty as Mont Plane, being of opinion that to 
be icy was to be majestic. He had assumed his grand 
manner now, and fancied that the stranger of the morn- 
ing s ride had gone away in deep reverence of spirit. Per- 
haps Mr. Jolly was less majestic than he thought himself— 
perhaps Val was an unusually irreverent young man His 
mmd was occupied with a pleasanter theme than Mr. 
Jolly s manner. The appearance of Constance did not strike 


VALfcNTIKE STRANGE. 


69 


him as it had struck Gerard Lumby. The two young men 
were totally different in nature and manners. Gerard had 
a knightly tenderness and respect for all women, and had 
scarcely ever kissed any feminine lips but his mother's. He 
would have done any hard and dangerous thing rather than 
have been forced to pay a direct compliment to a young 
woman. To him, women seemed more than human — even 
a house-maid had a nimbus about her, a sort of protecting 
something which overawed him. But Val, in any fresh 
country house, knew every petticoated soul within it in a 
week, and made love to all of them in a way — hostess, 
daughters, guests, maids in service, with a fine merry in- 
difference which won the female heart. And he did not 
worship — but prided himself on understanding — the sex; 
showing thereby his own weakness and folly. Here and 
there — after years of close and tender intercourse, broken 
by the rubs of life, made sweet by birth, and holy by death 
of little children — one man learns to understand one 
woman; but to strive to sum the sex were a vain arithmetic, 
though a man had the years of Methuselah in which toper- 
form it. 

Val rode away admiring, but by no means subdued. The 
encounter had taken place within a couple of miles of 
Lumby Hall, and he was on his way thither to surprise 
Gerard. And it chanced that Gerard was back in time to 
be surprised; for no sooner had the hounds thrown off, 
than there came a check; and the young fellow, after sit- 
ting disconsolately on horseback for some five minutes, 
waiting for the hounds to recover scent, felt the “ blind 
boy's buttshaf t ” so rankle in him, that he turned, and rode 
almost savagely homeward, sorely troubled by the beauty 
of the incomparable Constance all the way. 

“Ahoy!” cried Val, discerning Lumby's figure before 
him in the road. 

“Why, Strange, old man,” said Gerard, reining in as 
Val came plunging up, “you look like a Bed Indian. 
Have you circumnavigated the world yet?” 

“Hot yet,” said Val. “The fact is that when we got 
to Calais — we went there first, you know — Gilbert had a 
plan. Gilbert's a wonderful fellow at a programme, and 
his notion was that we might send the yacht down to 
Trieste — ” 

“ Trieste?” cried Gerard. 


4 ' 'I / ' t 

70 VALEXTIKE strakge. 

“And that we might join it there. So we had a fort- 
night in Paris, and a fortnight in Vienna, and a fortnight 
in Venice: and then we got aboard again, and went to 
Naples. Charming place, Naples. Lots of pleasant peo- 
ple there. ” 

“ Stay there long?” asked Gerard. 

“Well,” answered Val, with a little laugh, “I've only 
just got back. Gilbert met a fellow, and wanted to go 
coasting round everywhere. So I let him go; and they 
went to Athens and Smyrna and Corfu, and all sorts of 
places. Then they called for me: and we have just come 
up, past Gibraltar and across the * Bay of Biscay, Oh/ to 
Southampton — and here I am. ” 

“And when are you off again?” 

“Don't be in a hurry to get rid of me,” said Val. “I 
shall cruise again in the summer, I dare say; but Fm not 
going to brave the dangers of the wintery deep in a cockle- 
shell any more.” 

“ Shall you stay for the hunting?” asked Gerard. He 
was afraid that Strange would see his idol. He was afraid 
of everybody, distrustful of himself, despairing of success, 
and spiritually sore all over. 

“Now, did you ever know me hunt?” Val asked, in al- 
most an injured tone. “Am I the man to risk my bones 
for nothing? I hate to make a toil of a pleasure. I am 
not ambitious to go about with a crutch. I have no yearn- 
ing to be trepanned.” 

“ Then what shall you do?” asked Gerard. “ Wliat's 
the good of being in the country if you do not hunt?" 

“ I don't know," responded Strange. “ It's a bore to 
have plans." Then Val began to tell of his adventures; 
and they reached the house, and sought Gerard's den to- 
gether. Above the mantel-piece, framed in violet-colored 
velvet, was a colored cabinet portrait of Constance, which 
Gerard had begged from Milly. Strange stood with his 
elbows on the marble slab and examined it critically. 
Gerard, observing him, endured a ridiculous pang of jeal- 
ousy. 

“ Who is she?" asked Val, with his head on one side, 
smiling at the picture through eyes half closed. 

“ Whom do you mean?” returned the disingenuous 
Gerard, feigning to be busy in the attempt to open a cigar- 
cabinet. 


valentine strange. 


71 


J The lady here. I met her in the lane this morning on 

j0 sSn^n<ii»g a little back, began to spent Bassanio's 

speech. AY hat find I here? 

Fair Portia’s counterfeit? What dcmi-god ■ 

Hath come so near creation? Move these y 
Or whether riding on the balls of mine. 

Seem they in motion? Here are severed lips 
Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar 
Should sunder such sweet fnend ,\ . 

The painter plays the spider, and hath wo\en 
A gohletf mesh to entrap the bearts of men _ 

Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her ) 

How could he see to do them? having made one, 

Metliinks it should have power to steal both his. 

And leave itself unfurnished. 

“ mat's all that rubbish about?" asked 
At these hyperbolic praises, a keen pang j 3 
through him. Who had a right topiai^ er • . 

th “Ever mind the Swan of Avon/’ said Gerard. “ Go 

I’m back again when you see him m t,° ^ ^ S 
over to my place, and ^ve a d y. t id this; 

was standing again before the porteaitwn^d^ and 

and a sudden resolve passed thro gl G Stran g e 

“.f/S it “ >» «■" 

His heart heat against Ins side, and 1 

thing is level It «“ 

first seen her, and without he hjs manly heart 

living. Whatever ot 'J»“! dWered 

Sr. shrine. wiflt such sacriScea as 


72 


VALENTINE STEANGE. 


such men offer, whilst she sat with dreamy eyes over a 
hook in her little boudoir at the Grange, and looked, as he 
figured her, an inspiration for painter and poet. But we 
know what Portia s golden casket held. Constance was 
thinking of Gerard, and weighing the chances of his 
coming, and her pulse beat evenly, and her bosom was un- 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“llY DEAR,” SAID MR. JOLLY, “i TOLD YOU SO.” 

Gerard arose haggard, and looking like a murderer to 

^r' n An ffi° d as he regarded himself in the 

glass. All night long he had tossed to and fro, actino- over 
and over again the drama of to-morrow. He was a & thou- 
sand times rejected m the prophecies of these terrible 
waking dreams. In sweet, tumultuous moments he was 
accepted Once or twice came the fancy that he was loved 
m turn, but there seemed, somehow, an irreverence in it 
almost a desecration. True love is humble, and Gerard’s 

whlcin aS l tme ' A 1 long lle tossed > and dreamed his 
.king dreams; and though sometimes his heart defied 
hate, and manly courage reasserted itself, for the most part 
J ® trembled at the thought of the ordeal before him, and 

hi loXYl 0± h n r° nS T aS eviL At the breakfast-table 
his looks alarmed his mother; and he was so self-absorbed 

lmiwl g L he “ ea [. and eat so little, that at its close she fol- 
lowed him to his own private room with matronly solici- 

,, is ? nl y y° ur mother,” she said, when Gerard opened 

wW L° r m aU T° r to , her ra PPmg. “ Gerard, my dear, 
what have you been doing to look so unwell? You have 

sure e ” erted yourself ’ Gerard - You ride too much, I am 

k n ghed ’ and S0t , back his broad shoulders, 
inere s nothing amiss with me, mother.” 

“ Let me look at your tongue,” she said. 

Gerard laughed again, and answered lightly, “ I am bc- 

of°tL he ^ lm P le Herbal,’ mother. ” Mrs. Lumby, out 
of that precious volume, dosed the village children. " 

I am sure it’s furred, Gerard. I can tell it is by your 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


73 


complexion and the look of your eyes. And red at the 

edges, Gerard.” ,., r , , 

He drew her to his side and kissed her. “ You re a good 
old mother, aren’t you? There’s nothing the matter with 
me I’m as tough as a whipcord, and as hard as nails. . 

“ Then, Gerard,” said the old lady, standing still within 
his embrace, and looking gravely up to him; “ then, Ger- 
ard, you are disturbed in mind. I he big Gerard looked 
down at her gently, and kissed her again. But she would 
have been no mother if she had not seen the blush upon 
his cheek. “In mind or body, Gerard, you ore dis- 
turbed. And it’s of no use to kiss me in that hypocritical 
way if you won’t tell me what s the matter with you. 

“ I have had rather a bad night,” Gerard confessed. . 

“I knew it!” said Mrs. Lumby, in a sort of lugubrious 
triumph. “ You have had many bad nights lately. There 
is something on your mind. ” And without knowing it, she 
went to work on what philosophers call the. exhaustive 
method. “ Is it money, Gerard? Because, if it is—” 

“ Ho,” he said; “ it isn’t money. It’s insomnia. 

“ Have you quarreled with any of your friends?” 

« Mv dear old mother,” said Gerard, “ I haven’t quar- 
reled with anybody.” He was hypocritical enough to kiss 

her again at this juncture. . 

“ Have you been making a hook on that dreadtui JJer- 
by?” inquired Mrs. Lumby. 

“ The dreadful Derby was run six months ago, said 
Gerard in reply; “ and I never make books.” 

“ Then, Gerard,” she said, “ is it what I think it is? 

“ How can I tell?” asked guilty Gerard, blushing to the 


“Gerard!” she cried, “I see it now! I guessed it a 
long time ago. And, 0 Gerard, not to tell me! Who is 
it? Is it Miss Jolly?” And here the young man was fair- 
ly trapped, and looked as guilty as any small hoy caught 
in the act of pilfering sweetmeats." The question has been 
asked before — But why does a man who is in love look 
ridiculous? Young women under kindred circumstances, 
according to such limited observations as I have been able 
to make, look superangelic, and make the men, by very force 
of contrast, look the foolisher. “ It is Miss J oily !” said Mrs. 
Lumby, turning from inquiry to asseveration. Don t 
make love to me, Gerard* I am not going to forgive you 


n 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


— yet. And how long has this been going on, without 

your saying one word to me about it?” 

“ There hasn't been anything going on at all,” protested 
Gerard. “ I've — I've scarcely spoken to her.” 

“ But you are going to,” said Mrs. Lumby, with femi- 
nine keenness; “ and that is what disturbs you.” Gerard's 
face and attitude were sufficient for confession. “ I sup- 
pose,” she added, wiping her eyes, “that I am a silly old 
woman, and that I ought to have looked for it. ” 

“ Don't say that, mother,” pleaded Gerard. 

“And now,” pursued Mrs. Lumby, “somebody else 
will be snapping Milly up, with such a fortune as your 
father can afford to give her, and I shall be left alone. Do 
you know what sort of an answer you will get?” 

“ No,” said Gerard with a desperate sigh. “Don't ask 
me any more just now, mother; I'll tell you all about it 
when I have spoken. ” 

“Are you going to the Grange to-day?" asked his 
mother anxiously. 

“Yes,” answered Gerard; “I am going this morning.” 
And at that his mother gave him her blessing, and a pile 
of good advice for which he had no ears. 

An hour or two later he rode away, his mother watching 
the well-set, broad-shouldered figure out of sight, and fol- 
lowing him and his suit with hopes that were almost 
prayers, and yet with a sinking at the heart. Here once 
more was Time's lever at work, forcing a way into the 
joints of family masonry, and rendering stone asunder 
from stone. She said nothing to her husband; but she 
told all to Milly; and Milly soothed her, and having quite 
succeeded in restoring her to cheerfulness, went away toiler 
own room and cried for an hour. This is woman's way. 
Heaven remembers those hidden and unselfish tears. 

Meantine, the object of all this solicitude rode sadly, 
unable to pluck up heart of grace at all. “ It's like my 
cheek,” he said, for he was not used to clothe his thoughts 
in poetic language — “ its like my cheek to think that she 
will look at me twice. But I can't help it; and I couldn't 
help it if I were a crossing-sweeper, and she were a queen. 
I think the more distance between us, the more 1 should — 
the worse I should be.” He could not finish the sentence, 
even to himself, by the simple words “ love her,” because 
of the presumption it seemed, and the holy thing his 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


75 


E assion as yet was to him. Then he suddenly bethought 
imself — for he had laid no plans as yet and scarcely knew 
his way at all — that in the first instance it would be his 
duty to face, not Constance, but her father, and at that 
thought his fallen courage rose a little. No angelic majes- 
ty sat enthroned on Mr. Jolly's crinkled forehead, even 
for Gerard. The stake was no less than it had been; but 
the young fellow felt more equally matched with the father 
than with the maiden. So he put in spurs, and galloped 
on in altered mood; but when he came within sight of the 
house, flaring courage fell again, and it seemed only a 
dogged despair that prompted him to go through with his 
cause and have it over. When he had passed the lodge, his 
heart came into his throat with a great bound, for there he 
saw Mr. Jolly walking with Constance at his side. He 
threw himself from his horse and approached on foot. 

“ My dear," said Mr. Jolly, in an undertone, on first be- 
holding Gerard, “ I told you so." 

Constance said nothing just then, but received Gerard 
with a radiant smile. But her wonderful eyes were always 
radiant, and there was no gladness at his arrival or tender- 
ness for him witliim them. Mr. Jolly called a gardener 
who was sweeping one of the paths, and bade him take the 
horse; and Constance, with another charming smile and an 
inclination of her head, took a wordless leave and walked 
into the house. Her beautiful face was framed in the soft 
white of a woollen cloud, and to Gerard she looked more 
ravishing than ever. Her father wisely gave the young fel- 
low time to gather mental breath, and talked of anything 
meanwhile — the weather, the hunting, the terrible price of 
hay. 

“I have come thus early, Mr. Jolly," Gerard began, 
“ because I wish to speak to you of a matter of the most 
urgent importance to myself. " His voice was shaky, and 
there was a pallor beneath the brown upon his face. 

“Indeed?" said Mr. Jolly, with beautiful innocent sim- 
plicity. One can almost fancy him dressed as a shepherd 
d la Watteau in an Arcady where nobody ever grows old, 
and where, as a consequence, there are no fathers to consult 
about love-making, he was so charmingly ignorant of 
Gerard's motive. 

“ 1 will come to the point at once," said Gerard. He 
paused, however, long enough to give Mr. Jolly time to say 




76 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


T in a manner all suave, half assenting and half in- 
quiring. -“ Hove your daughter, and I am here to ask your 
leave to tell her so." That was Gerard all over. When he 

bushes thmg t0 Say ' he Said ifc With no verbal beatin g of 


Mr. Jolly knew pretty well what was coming; but this 
curt announcement almost took his breath away. It was 
like a cold douche. He walked on mechanically for half a 
minute before he could reply. “Mr. Lumby," he said 
tnen, “this is a little sudden, and — and unexpected. The 
manner of your avowal bespeaks sincerity, genuine sin- 
cerity. He walked on a little further, the wooer pacing at 
his side. “ Our acquaintence, Mr. Lumby, has not been a 
long one; but this sort of affair goes on rapidly whilst we 
old people are asleep. My daughter knows nothing of your 
wishes.-'’’ His innocence was quite Arcadian. 

“ Nothing," answered Gerard. 

Mr. Jolly, holding the tip of his chin daintily between 
his finger and thumb, looked meditatively upon the gravel 
at his feet. “M-m-m!" said Mr. Jolly, with an aspect 
of reflection. “Your parents, Mr. Lumby— are they 
aware of your intentions?" J 

“I told my mother this morning," said Gerard, with 
great simplicity! “ I haven’t spoken to my father yet. I 
shall— on my return." 

“Amongst people in Our position," said Mr. Jolly, 
“marriage is a serious matter. Everything should be 
above board. There should be no reservations. I need not 
tell you, Mr. Lumby, that I know nothing of my daughter’s 
feelings, and that I can not even pretend to sound them. 
Only a mother can undertake so delicate an office, and my 
poor child was deprived early of a mother’s care. For 
myself, I can only promise to throw no opposition in your 
way, provided that your father’s explicit assent is given. 
.Beyond that I can not go, at present." 

“ I T ca “ answer for my father," said Gerard. “ He likes 
Miss Jolly very much; and in a matter like this he won’t 
cross me. ” 


“ Consult him, Mr. Lumby— consult him," advised the 
Arcadian, with palms raised in gentle protest against 
Gerard s headlong wishes. 

“ Very well/* said the impetuous Gerard. “Fll ride 
back now, and be here again in an hour.” 


VALEHTIKE STRANGE. 


77 - 

“My dear Mr. Lumby," said the Arcadian, “I am an 
older man than you are, and I may perhaps, without too 
much presumption, venture to advise you." 

“ Surely," said Gerard. 

“ Thank you. Do not, in a matter of so much impor- 
tance, act in too great haste." 

“ Mr. Jolly," said Gerard, speaking not without dignity, 
“ I should be much more unworthy than I am, if I could 
take one step or speak one word about it, without being 
certain of myself at least, or without having weighed every 
word and counted every step beforehand." 

“Mr. Lumby," said the Arcadian, quite moved, “I es- 
teem your candor and your earnestness at their full value. 
And whatever termination this affair may find, this inter- 
view — the manner in which you have conducted a matter of 
this delicate nature — has added, I will say most highly, to 
my esteem for you." 

“Thanks very much," said Gerard, with more placidity 
than he had hitherto been able to command. He was 
in love with Constance, not with her father, and he did not 
care to be patronized even then, and even by him. His tone 
declared as much quite plainly. 

“ Confound him!" said the Arcadian, inwardly, feeling a 
little discomfited. He kept his outward suavity, however, 
saw the lover remount, and waved him a friendly adieu. 
Once clear of the drive, away went Gerard like the wind, 
with the fresh air whistling past his ears, and a thousand 
sweet hopes stirring at his heart. He never drew rein till 
he reached home, when he dashed into the house like a 
messenger of war. 


CHAPTER IX. 

SHE ANSWERED “ YES." 

“ Hillo! hillo!" cried Lumby senior, going lamely across 
the hall. “ What's the matter, Gerard?" 

“Fm in a bit of a hurry," said Gerard, cooling down a 
little. “I want to speak to you, thaPs all." 

“ IPs worth no man's while to risk his neck to hear me 
talk," said Lumby senior, with a chuckle. “ Come in, 
lad. What is it?" He sat in the big library chair: and 
Gerard having closed tbe door, walked up and down for a 


?8 VAEEHTIHE STRAHGE. 

minute or two, and then planting liimself before his sire, 
lie spoke: 

“ Father, I’m thinking about getting married.” 

“ Ah,” said Lumby, senior, with his features a little 
twisted by a sudden twinge of gout. “ Is that a general or 
a particular statement? Is it an abstract sentiment, or is 
there a lady in the case already?” 

“There is a lady in the case already.” 

“Who is it?” 

“Miss Jolly,” responded the lover, looking and feeling 
like a defiant criminal. 

“ Very good taste, my lad,” said the elder man — “very 
good taste indeed. Don’t tell your mother I said so; but 
if I were younger — A — ah! That isn’t conscience, but the 
gout. Well?” 

“I have spoken to her father this morning.” 

“ The dickens you have!” said Mr. Lumby, with another 
facial distortion. 

“He demands,” pursued Gerard, “that your explicit 
consent shall be given before he can entertain my proposal. ” 

“ He demands that my explicit consent shall be given 
before he can entertain your proposal, does he? Gerard, 
your language is worthy of your university. An Oxford 
training has not been wasted on you. What do you want 
to get married for? Why, only the other day you were a 
legal infant. Gerard, my lad, keep clear of my plaguy 
foot and come here and shake hands. You had only to 
choose a lady to be sure of my consent. And I know, she’s 
pretty, and I know she’s clever, and I think she’s good. 
Go, and win her, my lad, and wear her worthily, and let 
your old dad nurse his grandchildren before he dies.” 

The old man was riper and mellower than the young 
one. As they shook hands, Gerard’s look was a trifle 
sulky. He could not show emotion gracefully, and he was 
deeply moved. But the gripe of the young giant’s fingers 
made his father’s hand ache for five minutes afterward, 
and a good deal more love went into that hand-shaking, 
from both sides, than some very fluent people ever know 
in all their lives. So, bearing the paternal as well as the 
maternal blessing, the wooer rode once more away. He 
went gallantly this time, riding like a lover. Could he 
fail to win with such good auguries behind him? 

“ My dear Constance,” said Mr. Jolly, entering the room 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 79 

in which his daughter sat, “Mr. Lumby has honored me 
by a formal proposal for your hand.” 

“ And you," said Constanoe, who had watched the in- 
terview from her window, “have sent him about his busi- 
ness?" 

“Yes," said her father, with his wrinkled smile. “His 
business is to obtain his fathers consent. I have no doubt 
of his attachment to you; that has been evident from the 
first; but as I told him, in a matter of this kind, every- 
thing must be above-board, and I could not dream of allow- 
ing my consent or yours -to be extorted, until all things 
were made clear on his side." 

“And when he comes back, I am to say ' Yes/ papa?" 
asked Constance. 

“My dear," said Mr. Jolly, shrugging his shoulders ever 
so little, “ I am not an ogre, or a wicked father in a novel 
in the ‘Young Ladies* Tea-table Gazette.* You will ex- 
ercise your judgment. Mr. Lumby, armed with his father’s 
consent, will seem to me a most desirable and eligible hus- 
band. ** He spoke of Gerard as an auctioneer speaks of a 
family mansion. 

Constance sighed faintly. “ I think he is a good man, 
papa,** she said ; “ and I know he is very much attached to 
me. But" (Mr. Jolly shrugged his shoulders again a 
little more pronouncedly) — “ I like him too," she said — 
“ but — ** 

“ Once more, my dear," said Mr. Jolly, “ I am not the 
wicked father of a cheap romance; but if you throw away 
such a chance as this, I shall think that you deserve never 
to have another." 

“Very well, papa," said Constance; “I will do as you 
wish." He kissed her with unusual warmth and kindli- 
ness. “ And now," she said, “ let us say no more about it 
till the knight-errant comes." 

The knight-errant was not long in coming. Soberly 
enough he came in sight; but there were evidences on gal- 
lant JKupert*s sides which told of haste, and Gerard*s ab- 
sence had been marvelously brief. 

“I have seen my father," he said to Mr. Jolly, “and I 
carry with me not merely his approval, but his warmest 
wishes." 

“That smooths my way completely," said Mr. Jolly. 
“ There remain only my daughters wishes to consult. 


80 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


And there, Mr. Lnmby — let me be candid with you — I can 
exercise no influence, no control. You have my cordial 
good wishes. I can offer you nothing more . 99 Again the 
Arcadian rather overdid it. 

“Mr. Jolly,” said Gerard, rather stiffly, “do me the 
justice to believe that I would not win by coercion, even if 
I could.” 

“ I can’t have a row with the fellow now,” said the 
guileless shepherd, inly. “ But when they’re married, I 
sha’n’t see much of them. I can go back to the Albany. 
It’s the only decent place to live in. ” He added aloud : 
“Our sentiments are happily at one upon that matter. 
And now, Mr. Lumby, what is the next step? Shall I 
smooth your way at all by preparing my daughter to re- 
ceive your proposal, and by telling her that you make it 
with my sanction? Or would you prefer to wait?” 

“ I don’t think,” said Gerard, “ that there can be any 
advantage in delay.” 

“ No?” asked Mr. Jolly, smilingly. “Well, perhaps not 
— perhaps not.” Within himself he exulted. Constance 
had been a great anxiety to him. It was a big thing to 
book a young man with half a million in perspective — not 
quite the biggest thing the daughter of such a man as Mr. 
Jolly might have done, he thought, but eminently satisfac- 
tory. “ Will you excuse me then?” Gerard, too much agi- 
tated for speech, inclined his head in answer; and Mr. Jolly 
left the room. “ Constance,” he said, himself a little 
shaken, “}'OU have quite made up your mind?” She 
nodded with a faint smile. She had had no dream of love, 
but always until now there had been a hope that the dream 
might come and fulfill itself. And now? Well, Gerard 
was very nice and manly — she had little fault to find with 
him; but she did not love him. She would have liked to have 
loved her husband a little. As her father had said only 
the day before. Nature returns, even when expelled with a 
pitchfork. All her training had gone against marrying for 
love, and she had heard it condemned as silly, and even as 
sometimes wicked. She sighed a little, smiled a little at 
the sigh, and so surrendered. She arose, and surveyed her 
own regal and tender beauty in the mirror, regarding her- 
self critically. Her bosom heaved with a passing sense of 
triumph, and as she turned, Gerard entered. She surveyed 
him demurely. A man at least, every inch of him. Not 



VALENTINE STRANGE. 


81 


a mere creature of the ball-room and the park. Now that 
she looked at him with this new interest, that he was to be 
her husband, she saw much to admire in him. She waved 
him to a seat; but he stood before her and pleaded his 
cause. 

“Miss Jolly, your father has already prepared you for 
my visit ?” Her bowed head bent a little lower in affirma- 
tion. “ I am glad of that, for I should not have liked to 
startle you by my abruptness. ” A little smile flickered 
across the hidden features at this statement. Poor Gerard 
thought that this virgin fortress w T as here for the first time 
assailed. Qonstance remembered a score of such scenes, 
and almost the only difference between them and this was 
that she had always said “No,” and was now to say 
“ Yes.” There was the least possible quiver of earnestness 
in his voice. “I suppose,” he said, with unintentional 
quaintness, “to tell anybody straight out, ‘I love you/ 
would be a little hard; and I think the truer it is, the 
harder it is.” Constance, who was perfectly self-possessed, 
smiled again at this. The simplicity was manly; it even 
touched her a little. “ If I speak clumsily, I will ask you 
to excuse me. I have only known you for three months, 
and that is but a little time. I should have laughed three 
months ago to think that such a love ” — the word cost him 
a great and evident effort, and it was plain that it was 
sacred to him; the listener knew it — “ could have grown 
in a man’s heart in such a time. But it has grown there, 
and my life is in your hands. I ask a great thing — I ask a 
thing of which I know I am unworthy — I ask you to share 
my life with me. It shall be my continual study to make 
you happy.” There his very earnestness broke him down. 

“Mr. Lumby,” said Constance — she could say nothing 
ungracefully, and though she was as cool as a cucumber, 
he thought she looked and spoke like a pitying angel — 
“ you ask a great thing — a great thing on both sides. Let 
me ask a little one. Give me a day to think of your offer. ” 

“ Give me an answer now!” he pleaded. She was sitting 
before him looking upward, and for the first time in this 
interview he saw her eyes ^nd looked into them. There is 
no exaggerating the matter — he was head over ears in love 
— and love, even in a man who means to be self-possessed, 
will have its way. The glance of the wonderful violet eyes 
brought him down upon one knee before her. One white 


82 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


bund tv as stretched a little toward him. He took it in both 
his. “Give me an answer now!” he murmured, with 
pleading r eyes fastened on her face— “give me an answer 
now!” This was a phase of love-making on which Con- 
stance had not counted, and it was new to her. The man 
was kissing one hand, and had possessed himself of the 
other — a prodigious and unheard-of situation. It was not 
unpleasant, though at first a little alarming. “ Say Yes,” 
said this audacious Gerard, murmuring with his "breath 
upon her cheek, and both her hands in his. And it was 
wonderful and strange — if Nature were ever wonderful and 
strange— to see how the stronger male naturef triumphed; 
for caught in this unexpected snare, wooed for once like a 
woman, by a man who loved her, in place of being talked 
to by an automaton as though she were an elegant wax- 
work, she answered “ Yes;” and for one bewildered minute 
her head lay on Gerard’s shoulder, and the first kiss that 
ever love had planted there was warm upon her lips. Then, 
fairly frightened at his impetuosity, she sprung to her feet’ 
and escaped to think and wonder. And when she saw her- 
self in the glass, she saw a more lovely creature reflected 
there than ever her mirror had shown her until now; for 
her eyes were all agleam, and her face was rosy, and there 
was a marvelous new look she had never seen before. And 
as she stood there, she made one utterly feminine remark 
aloud— a remark so womanly, that it startled her to know 
that it could have crossed her as a thought: “I ought 
to be a happy woman to be loved so much.” 

Was the dream to come after all? Was she, too, like the 
spurious heroines of romance, to have a husband whom she 
could love, and not merely tolerate? 

The poor Gerard went home feeling criminal, and yet 
conscious of a certain sense of satisfaction. And after all, 
if a woman does not want to be kissed, what right has she 
to be downright bewitching? An unanswerable query. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE GHOST OF GARLING’s PAST. 

Garling, trusted cashier aad manager to the great 
house of Lumby, sat in his own apartments in Fleet Street. 
The streets outside were filled with fog, and the lamps 


VALEKTIKE strange. 


83 


burned yellow in the haze. Voices of passers-by, footsteps, 
roll and roar and rumble of traffic by seething Temple Bar, 
came faintly, as though filtered through wool before reach- 
ing Garling's ears. There was a half extinguished fire upon 
the hearth, the red glaring with dying anger through gray 
ashes. At a large circular table, lighted by one shaded 
lamp, sat the secret man, his hands resting passively in the 
light, his face in darkness. Outside the circle of the shaded 
lamp, everything lay m doubled darkness; and shadows 
lurked behind the meager chairs, hiding in gloomy corners, 
as though, like Garling's face, they had drawn back from 
the tell-tale lamp. Muffled like the outer sounds, the 
voices of dead youth spoke through the fogs of many years. 
Unformed and indistinct, like the shadows in the corners 
of his room, the faces and figures known in that dead youth 
time moved before him. He had no wish or will to sum- 
mon back the Past, but it flowed in upon him like a phan- 
tom tide. He could no more resist its coming than he could 
have swept back a real sea upon an actual beach. It rose 
about him with voices sad and terrible, and, as it were upon 
the crest of every phantom wave, old faces smiled or frown- 
ed again, and in the murmur of that tide of time old voices 
spoke. 

Out of this mood he came into another, to which the first 
seemed but the natural prelude. Scenes came before him: 
gray, as in dreams, with no light upon them. And, indis- 
tinctly — as he saw the scenes — he heard the voices of those 
who acted in them, filtered through the fogs of years: 

“ You are going,” said one phantom, “ to the coast?” 

“ Yes,” said another; “down to Devonshire.” 

The latter phantom was himself of three-and-twenty 
years ago; the other, a friend who died. 

“ I am uncertain where to go,” said the voice of the first 
phantom, speaking in Memory's ear. “ Shall I join you? 
Do you mind?” 

“ Come by all means,” said the ghost of Garling's past; 
and the scene changed, yet the people were the same. 

“ I am recalled,” said the shadowy friend, “ and must 
return at once. I must travel hastily. You had better 
take my luggage on, and bring it back to town with you. ” 

The scene changed again. His self that was, had alighted 
at a village inn alone. He saw the ghost of the coachman, 
the ghosts of a team of horses, the ghost of a coach, the 


84 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


The portmanteau bore a 
xes, said the gliost of Garline's mst- “ minL ” a a 

SSSjasa 

(c } , ou Iove ™ e well enough to trust me?” 
say.” ° Ve J0U better than a,, y words that I can find will 

Sli^psss 

dei „k?» ^’ t “r?5.,“ ai ;“’- ,,k,> ,* his *0 % 'fS- 

I * \ yas Gailmg s voice winch answered 

ISHsssasi 


sv.SSS SF ■>;“ 6 

ssr.-ssi^SSs^SE 

E?£3P : ‘ 

A voice spoko through the letter-slip, and stirred the 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 85 

little cloud of yellow fog that lingered round it. “ I want 
to see Mr. Martial."' 

“ Who are you? What do you want?" asked Garling 
ungraciously, as he opened the door. A tall figure, stood 
in the fog, dimly visible by the light of a street lamp. The 
cashier, peering at him, made out that he was respectably 
attired. “ What do you want?" he asked again. 

“ I want to see Mr. Martial," said the man. “Is that 
you. Mister?" 

“ Mr. Martial has gone away from here long since," said 
Garling. 

“ That's a pity," said the man. “ His wife's dyin'. 
She sent me to this address — at least her daughter did. " 

“ Come in." 

The man entered, closing the door behind him, and 
followed the cashier upstairs. Garling turned round upon 
him there, as he stood full in the lamplight, looking at 
him for half a minute, and then replaced the shade of the 
lamp. “ Who are you?" he demanded. 

“I'm a lodger in Mrs. Martial's house." 

“ What's your name?" 

“ Hiram Search," replied the messenger. “ What's 
yourn ?" 

Garling returned no answer to this query; but from 
under down-drawn brows regarded his visitor rather as if 
he looked beyond him than at him. 

“ Can you tell me where Mr. Martial is to be found?" 
asked Hiram. 

“ No," said Garling; “ I can't." 

“ And wouldn't if you could," said Hiram to himself. 
The cashier's manner certainly conveyed that inference 
legitimately enough. 

“ How long," asked Garling, “ has his wife been ill?" 

“ She's been ailing," Hiram responded, “ for a long time; 
but she's only been real bad about a week." 

“ Who says she is dying?" 

“ Doctor," said Hiram, laconically. Neither of the two 
men liked the other. There was an instinctive antagonism 
between them. “ Says she can't live the night out," he 
added. 

“ Go and call a cab," said the cashier. 

“ There's one outside," responded Hiram. 

Mr. Garling drew on an overcoat, galoches and gloves, 


VALEKTINE STRAtf&E. 


wound a muffler about his throat, put on his hat, all 
gravely and deliberately, and then turned down the lamp. 
Hiram led the way down-stairs, and they entered the cab 
which waited at the door. “ Drive straight back,” said 
Hiram, “ an* make haste.” 

Eoll and roar as though a tide were rising near at hand. 
Spectral appearances and disappearances of red-eyed mons- 
ters, mistily discerned as hansom cabs, growing out of fog- 
like exhalations, and melting back again. Roll and roar 
of the unseen tide along noisy Fleet Street and loud Lud- 
gate Hill and by echoing St. Paul’s, and then a dulled quiet 
in Cheapside, as though the breakers had fallen into sudden 
frosty silence. Then from the asphalt to the stones again, 
with renewed bellowings of the unseen tide. Nothing 
seeming real to either of the travelers but themselves and 
the vehicle they sat in. Even the cab, verifying its ex- 
istence by painful joltings, was drawn in quite a ghostly 
and unreal manner, by nothing but the phantom hind- 
quarters of a horse. 

All this time Hiram speculated as to the identity of his 
companion, resolving now that he was the husband of the 
dying woman, and now that he was not. “ If I know any- 
thing about human natur’,” said Hiram to himself finally, 
“ he’s the sort of man who’d find lyin’ come easy to him. 
Sooner lie than not, I fancy.” He was most unfavorably 
impressed with Mr. Garling, and judged rashly. The 
cashier had, in point of fact, no preference either way, but 
told the truth or not, as it suited him. 

The cab began to turn and twist amongst the narrow 
and ill-paved streets, and by and by drew up before a mean 
and dingy door. Even in the fog Garling knew it, and 
alighting, laid his hand upon the knocker; when Hiram 
seized him by the wrist, and whispering, “ Gently does it,” 
leaned above the area railings and tapped softly with his 
fingers at the window. “I’ve lent my latch-key to the 
nurse,” he explained. In a moment, the girl who had an- 
swered Garling’s summons on his former visit, opened the 
door, and stood aside for them to pass. She carried a can- 
dle, and, protecting the flame with her hand, threw its 
feeble light upon her own face. Garling stood still and 
looked at her for a second or two; and she returned his 
gaze with some astonishment, not unmixed with fear. 

“You love me well enough to trust me?” It was the 


VALENTINE STRANGE- 87 

phantom voice of an hour ago — the echo of the voice of his 
own dead past, sounding in Garlihg's ears. 

“ I love you better than any words that I can find will 
say.” Question and answer murmured in his ear as he re- 
garded her. She was the reviyal of what her mother had 
been. Was there any touch of pity in him — any stirring 
of remorse? 

“ Where is your mother?” he asked. 

“ She is waiting for you,” the girl responded. “ Come 
this way.” Holding the candle aloft, she passed up the 
stairs, with the light shining down upon her hair, and 
making a halo upon it. Garling followed. The girl 
tapped at a chamber door, and a woman dressed in black 
opened it, and making a motion with her hand, as if to 
warn them both to silence, admitted them. 

“ Is she awake?” said Garling, in a hoarse under-tone. 

The woman shook her head and whispered; “ Sit down.” 
She motioned to a chair, and Garling obeyed her. 

The girl, still shading the candle with her hand, retired. 
One night-light burned feebly in the room, and the sleep- 
ers face was shaded from it. The fire had died within the 
grate, and the air was cold, and tinted yellow with the fog. 
A clock in another room ticked irregularly, with a sort of 
broken gallop in its sound, as though Time were tired, and 
hastening with uncertain footsteps to its close. As Garling 
listened to it, it came suddenly to an end, leaving an 
ominous pause. Distant breakers on great London's shore 
rolled from silence into silence. The pale shadows of his 
waking dreams were back again; the thin voices murmured 
on his inward ear, “ You love me well enough to trust me?” 
Again his own question. How had he repaid the trust he 
once invited? 

The sleeper moved uneasily; and, rising, he drew the 
curtain a little to one side, and looked at her. Her face 
was pale, and held no resemblance to what it had been, or 
any remembrance of it: The change was chiefly of his 
making. He dropped the curtain noiselessly, and sat down. 
The distant breakers on great London's thoroughfare 
heaved slowly up, rolled over, and died again m silence, 
one by one. Any rustle of the nurse's dress was quite an 
episode. Any closing of a door in the street without, any 
passing footstep, or voice that said “ Good-night,” any ash 




88 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


that shifted in the dead fire — took a weird importance. 
And so an hour went by, and the sleeper awoke. 

“Has Mr. Search come back?” she asked feebly, with a 
pause between each word. 

“Yes,” said Garling; “ and I am waiting here.” 

“ Leave us alone,” said the dying woman to the nurse, 
who bent above her. The nurse lingered, touching things 
here and there, and then retired, closing the door gently. 
“ Come here, Edward. Let* me see you.” 

“I am here,” he responded, “in answer to your mes- 
sage. ” 

“Edward, I am dying.” He made no answer. “I 
never wronged you.” The words “ I know it ” were almost 
on his lips, but he did not speak them. “ I have no re- 
proaches.” She could say no more for very weakness. 

“ Is there anything,” he asked, in a dry and husky voice, 
“that I can do?” 

“ Yes,” she breathed looking at him with her bright 
sunken eye — “Mary.” 

“You wish me to take care of her?” The closing eye- 
lids silently indicated, “ Yes;” and he said coldly: “I will 
do it.” 

“ Edward!” she breathed. 

“ Yes?” he answered in the same dry tone. The merest 
motion of her head beckoned him down, and he inclined 
his ear. 

She murmured word by word: “I have forgiven every- 
thing.” He never moved nor made a sign in answer. “ If 
I did wrong — if I tired of you ” — the words fell one by one 
and were barely audible — “forgive me now.” Perhaps, if 
the inward voice had been less loud, he might have spoken. 
She raised her wasted hand to his cheek, and he started 
upright at her touch. It was the first caress from any 
hand which had been laid upon him for now many years, 
and it was harder to bear than even the inward voice of ac- 
cusation. “ Edward,” she whispered, “ kiss me.” He bent 
stiffly down, and kissed her icily on the cheek. It was 
horrible to do it. Any pretense of love from him to her 
was such a lie, that even he revolted at it. She closed her 
eyes, and lay breathing faintly; whilst he stood looking 
down at her face, and listening to the noises of the streets. 
By and by he could hardly tell that she breathed at all, and 
creeping stealthily from the room and down the darkened 


YALEOTIKE STKAKGE. 


89 


stairs, he knocked at the door of the lower apartment. It 
was opened by the girl who had admitted him to the house. 
He entered, and glanced about him. There were few 
changes. The table was still littered with cloths and the 
floor with shreds, and there was some unfinished sewing 
cast over the back of a chair. The nurse sat brooding at a 
dispirited fire, and looked up as he entered. 

“ Go to your patient,” he said; and the woman, moving 
as if she resented the order, or disputed his right to g^’ve it, 
left the room. He turned upon the girl. “ Do you know 
who I am?” he asked. 

“My mother said after you came last time — ” She was 
in evident dread of his eyes, and shrunk from him. 

“Your mother said — what?” he demanded dryly. 

“ She said you were — my father.” 

“ She has sent to me, upon her death-bed — ” the girl 
clasped her hands with a look of terror — “ to recommend 
you to my care. It is too late now to enter into the rea* 
sons which caused your mother and myself to part. I 
have promised that you shall be provided for; and if I find 
you dutiful and tractable, you shall be well provided for / 5 

“Her death-bed?” cried the girl, as if all the rest had 
passed her by unheard. 

“ I shall be here again to-morrow between one and two 
oYlock,” he coutinued. “ You will then tell me what you 
need, and I shall make it my business to provide it.” He 
might as well have spoken to the wind. She passed one 
hand across her eyes in a blind and vacant way, and looked 
at him with no discerning. He smoothed with his coat- 
sleeve the hat he held in his hand, and with a curt “ Good- 
night,” was gone. 

The fog was denser than before, and the air had grown 
so raw, that though he was well wrapped up, and walked 
hurriedly, it chilled him to the bone. The ghostly and un- 
real semblance which everything bore in the fog, was m 
consonance with his mood, and was perhaps answerable for 
it. “ I did not marry that thing,” he muttered to himself, 
as the drawn face of his wife presented itself. He knew 
the vileness of that exculpation, and his thoughts goaded 
and irritated him. Dead Love, asking for some tenderness 
of pity, and being thus refused, brought fire instead of 
tears. He walked on, hurrying through the shadowy 
streets, carrying his own landscape with him, peopled with 


90 


VALEXTIXE STRAXGE. 


its shadowy creatures. Admitting himself at length at his 
own door, he mounted the stairs and entered the half- 
lighted room. He had never been a nervous man, and 
never a coward until now; but there was such a chill of 
terror on him that his hand shook as he turned up the 
lamp. The shadows fleeting back from the growing light 
put him in mind of secret marauders hiding, and in great 
tremor, which not all his own scorn for it could subdue, he 
ranged over his two rooms, lamp in hand, examining every 
crevice, looking beneath the bed, and opening the curtains 
of the shower-bath which stood in one corner. The noises 
in the street were more subdued, for the hour was growing 
late. The fire was dead in the grate, and the air of the 
rooms was cold and thick with fog. He took two or three 
bundles of wood from the cupboard, and lit the fire anew, 
and bending above it, warmed his chilled hands at the 
smoky blaze. There were shadows lurking at his shoulder 
— hands raised to strike — hooded forms with hidden eyes 
afire — he knew how the eyes blazed behind him, though 
they were shrouded and unseen — came nearer, noiseless, 
step by step. And though he sat in stern disdain of these 
unreal horrors, and knew them for what they were, they 
were still fearful to endure. He scorned to turn and scatter 
them; and he knew that if scattered, they would come 
again. “A vacant mind,” he said aloud, “can breed 
these things by the thousand. ” His voice sounded hollow 
in the silence, and he half expected to be answered. “ I 
must give myself an hou/s hard work,” he said again 
aloud, “or I shall not sleep to-night.” So saying, he 
crossed the room, unlocked the safe, and drawing forth his 
ledgers, fixed his lamp, and began to study the long rows 
of figures. To-night he seemed endowed with a duplicate 
mental existence, for though he mastered the figures, and 
grasped all their conclusions firmly, he was still acutely 
conscious of the slowly creeping shadows and the threaten- 
ing hands, and was at once afraid, and despiteful of him- 
self for being so. 

He rose at last, and standing with his back to the fire, 
which now burned brightly, he moved his hands before his 
breast, casting the palms outward, as if waving off his 
fears. “ I have planned too long and too well,” he mur- 
mured, ‘ ‘ to surrender the prize to any shadows. * Shadows 
to-night/” he went on, smiling grimly, “ 6 have struck 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


91 


more terror to the soul of Richard, than can the substance 
of ten thousand—’ ” The grim smile faded. Whatever 
the ten thousand were who filled the place of Richmond, 
they were disagreeable companions. Garling had never 
been a handsome man, and when he smiled, he was further 
removed from beauty than even when he frowned. Shad- 
ows — every one of you!” he said, with the renunciatory 
wave of the hands renewed. “ Absolute trust. Not a 
doubt in any mind, after ten years. And the plan per- 
fection.” 

As he spoke thus, there was even a sort of triumph in 
his face; and taking the lamp in his hand, he crossed the 
room firmly, entered his bed-chamber, and undressed. He 
who defies himself, is bold; and Garling slept with no per- 
turbation of conscience. He slept, and the hours went by 
him ; and every second the warp and woof of Circumstance 
shot in and out, and he had no knowledge of the web they 
wove. 


CHAPTER XL 

ARMED AND LIKE A GIANT. 

“ Life,” said Val Strange, repeating the dictum of the 
dyspeptic philosopher, “ would be tolerable if it were not 
for its pleasures.” Fully equipped for the slaughter of 
pike, and intent especially upon the beguiling of one wary 
monster, Val stood upon the river-brink, and employed all 
the arts he knew, and employed them all in vain. In the 
summer-time, a lover of rural scenery in search of placid 
beauty might have gone further than the spot and fared 
much worse; but under the gray, cold mist which lay upon 
it now, it looked not altogether inviting. Reginald Jolly, 
stamping his half -frozen feet upon a shelf of rock near at 
hand, and carrying himself as one who is without interest 
m anything the world can offer, gave a grunt in answer 
which might have been either affirmative or negative. 
The speech which followed the grunt set the matter at 
rest. 

“If you class this with life’s pleasures,” said the dimin- 
utive man, sadly, “I am with you. Let us go home, like 
reasonable people.” 

“ I should like to catch that fellow,” said Val wistfully* 


92 


TALEOTIN'E STKAHGE. 


“ He knows that/* said the little man, “ and in his fishy 
mind derides you. He is aged, and the years have made 
him wise." 

“ ril take another cut at him," Yal returned. “ Where 
are you going? Stop and help to carry him. He weighs 
half a hundredweight at least. " 

“ You'll be able to carry all you catch of him," returned 
Reginald. “ He scorned the devices of the angler when 
you were in the cradle. I am going to the mill, to sit by 
the managers fire, and thaw my bones! When you are 
tired of luring the ancient Eso£ of the stream, you'll find 
me there." 

“ ril come along at once," said Val reluctantly, “ since 
you are bent on going." He got his tackle together whilst 
the little man executed a grotesque dance with his hands in 
his pockets; and all things being ready, they marched side 
by side down stream. After traveling some half mile 
through the damp and rimy grasses, they came in sight of 
a raw-looking mass of building on the other side of the 
river. 

“ What an ugly thing it is," said Reginald, nodding at 
it, “that paper-mill." 

“ Yes," said Val; “ most things seem to be ugly, if you 
make money out of them. I mean — that things out of 
which one makes money are generally ugly. This was my 
uncle's doing. It spoils the landscape, but it's a valuable 
property." 

There were two or three barges lying in front of the 
building, and in one of them a boy was making pretense to 
do something, conscious of the eye of the proprietor. Yal 
hailed him, and ordered him to bring over a punt. The 
boy obeyed; and the two friends crossed the stream, and 
landing, entered the manager's room, where a cheerful fire 
blazed on the hearth. The manager was absent; but Val 
on his own property was of course at home. He stirred 
the fire, and, drawing forward a chair, seated himself. 

“Anything to eat and drink?" asked the little man. 
“I'm starving." 

“Sherry and sandwiches," said Val, producing them as 
he spoke. 

Reginald attacked the provender. “ I say, Strange, "he 
said, arresting a sandwich midway to his mouth, “you 
haven't seen my sister, have you?" 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


93 


“ No/* said Val, stirring the fire again, and sitting with 
the poker in his hand. “ Yes, I have. I met her out rid- 
ing once about a fortnight ago, I think. Why do you 
ask?** 

“I don*t know,** returned the little man, with his mouth 
full. “ I was thinking of her just then. I haven*t told you 
the news yet, I fancy. She’s going to be married. ** 

“Ah!** said Val, carelessly. “And who’s the happy 
man?** 

“ Who you think?** 

“ How should I know?** 

“ Lumby.** 

“ Lumby?** said Val. “ They haven*t known each other 
long, have they?** 

“ Three or four months perhaps,** said Reginald. “ It*s 
rather sudden; but you never saw a man so gone in all 
your life.** He laughed, irreverent of the tender passion. 
“ I like Lumby though/* he added. “ He*s a good fellow, 
and I suppose he*s a good match. If he weren’t/* pur- 
sued the candid youth, “ the governor wouldn’t have stood 
it. She*s has lots of chances; but they were all a poverty- 
stricken lot who came. It*s hard lines to be poor when you 
go into the matrimonial market. You’re not a marrying 
sort of man, are you. Strange?” 

“No,” said Val, toying with the poker still; “I think 
not. I don’t know. I shall marry some day, I suppose.” 

“ It’s a sort of thing,” said Reginald, with much philoso- 
phy, “ that runs in families. ” 

“Lumby is a good fellow,” said Val, balancing the 
poker. “ I like Lumby.” 

“I suppose he’s rich?” inquired Reginald. 

“ Will be,” answered Val shortly. “ Let’s go home.” 

“Wait a bit,” returned the other; “I want to get warm. 
What’s the matter with you? You look as sulky as the pike 
which still lies among his reeds.” 

“I should have liked to catch that fellow,” said Val, 
brightening up a little. 

“ There are two sides to everything,” said the young 
philosopher. “ He’s happier as he is.” 

Val threw the poker into the fire-place with a clang. 
“ Come along!” said he rising. “ Let us go home. This 
place makes me dull, I think.” 

Reginald, with some protests, arose; and the two left the 


94 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


mill and struck out a-foot across the fields. Yal was a lit- 
tle preoccupied, and conversation languished. They came, 
after a walk of two miles, to Strangers house; and having 
washed and made some alterations in dress, they went to 
luncheon. 

“ It’s a rather odd thing,” said Beginald, “ that you and 
I should have been chums so long, and that you should 
never have met my people.” 

“I don’t know,” said Strange, who was unusually de- 
pressed. “I shall see them to-morrow.” 

“ We shall have quite a houseful,” pursued the other. 
“Old Langton’s there, and the three girls. Nice girls. 
I’m in love more or less with all three of ’em; but I can’t 
afford it. Now, you might marry one of ’em, if you like 
— you, ‘ with lands in Kent and messuages in York,’ can 
marry whom you will.” 

“ Oh,” said Yal, abstractedly, “ 1 sha’n’t marry.” 

“ You never,” said Beginald, “did what you said you 
would do; and you generally do what you say you won’t 
do. I’ll bet all I’m worth you marry within five years.” 
Strange made no response to this challenge. “ Within 
three years,” pursued the challenger. “ W ithin two. Come, 
now!” 

“ I don’t know,” said Val, rousing suddenly, “ that I 
ought to go to-morrow to your place. Jolly.” 

“ Why?” asked his companion. 

“ Henderson has been at me for a week past,” said Yal; 
“ I’ve seen no accounts for a quarter of a year. They’ll 
take a day or two, and — ” 

“Pooh!” said Beginald, taking advantage of the pause. 
“ I’ve asked you three times. If you don’t like to come, 
say so.” 

“Don’t like to come?” cried Val, positively flushing in 
his warmth. “I’ll forgive you that, old man. Never 
mind. Let business slide for a while. I’ll be with you.” 
After this little burst, he fell again into moodiness; and 
his companion, finding him intractably dull, retired to the 
billiard-room, and there solaced himself with a book and a 
cigar. Dinner-time came, and Val was in wild spirits, 
talking with random brilliance; but in the evening he faded 
back to his afternoon condition. 

“What is the matter with you?” cried his companion at 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 95 

last,, throwing away a book, and taking his stand on the 
hearth-rug. 

“ Fm hipped," said Strange. “ If you had come out of 
that lovely Neapolitan climate into this beastly English 
winter, you'd feel the same. To think that I might have 
stayed there, and that I didn't! To think I might go back 
now, and that I don't! What fools we are, to be sure!" 

“ Apropos," said the philosopher with ? grin, “how it 
soothes a man to speak in the plural number. It's easy to 
say ‘ What fools we are;' hard to acknowledge, ‘What a 
fool I am.' Isn't it, Val?" 

“Well," returned Yal, “what a fool I am." 

“Are you?" said Reginald, with provoking coolness. It 
was not to be wondered at that Yal at once departed for 
his bedroom with a mere “ good-night. " His friend looked 
after him with sly humor in every wrinkle of his comic 
face. “I think I can lay my finger on the affected spot," 
he mused. “ Here's another man in love. Things are a 
bit rough with him. Perhaps she's too great a swell — per- 
haps somebody else is in the way — perhaps she has pro- 
nounced the fatal ‘No.' Anyway, he's in love, and un- 
prosperous. He will marry some time. He won't marry. 
The mere mention of an engagement to be married sets 
him off, and he spends a whole afternoon and evening in 
brooding about somebody else's luck and his own ill-fort- 
une. I wonder if I ever shall be taken that way. Oh, my 
dear young man, if ever you are attacked with that com- 
plaint, turn hermit till it's over. For if Strange is laugh- 
able, and Lumby comic, think what you'd be, you bald- 
headed little beggar — think, and tremble. " 

Whatever cause disturbed Val Strange's peace of mind, 
it was certainly not clear to himself. Perhaps he was 
merely suffering from the ennui which inevitably results 
from an aimless life. It is beyond dispute that he was in 
an abominable temper, and this was all the more remarka- 
ble from the ordinary placidity and sweetness of his ways. 
He threw a boot at his valet, and drove that obsequious 
friendly attendant from the chamber in bodily fear; then 
laughed at his own anger, and sat down by the bedside to 
gnaw his mustache, and think gloomily about nothing in 
particular. 

It was not in the nature of the attack itself, or in the 
nature of the man affected by it, that this unpleasant men- 


96 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


tal condition should last long, and in the morning Val de- 
scended in his customary spirits. Yesterday's mists had 
cleared away from the fields as well as from his mind; the 
wintery air was keen and bracing; the drive, to youth and 
recovered jollity, a real pleasure. Reginald introduced his 
friend with all due ceremony. 

“Mr. Strange," said Mr. Jolly, after the first few com- 
monplaces of conversation had passed, “ I am told that 
you have quite a wonderful collection of British birds. " 

“ There's something of the sort at my place, I believe," 
said Yal. 

“I have no doubt that mine is but a poor exhibition 
after yours; but I should like you to see it." 

“ I took them over from the late proprietor," said Mr. 
Jolly, waving his hand, as they entered a long chamber 
which contained the collection. “ I think I shall complete 
the collection, and hand it over to the British Museum or 
some kindred institution. This," indicating a moth-eaten 
owl, “ is the renowned " — he fixed his double glasses, and 
failing at a casual glance to make out the Latin inscription, 
bent lower, murmuring — “ the renowned — the renowned — 
in short, a species of bird with which you are no doubt 
familiar." The inscription was indecipherable, and Mr. 
Jolly was the least thing in the world embarrassed. 

“ I am like Hamlet," said Val; “I can tell a hawk from 
a hernshaw when the wind is nor'- west." 

“ Exactly," returned Mr. Jolly — “ exactly." His manner 
was a little abstracted. “ Oh, by the way," he cried, sud- 
denly turning upon his guest with a smile of surprise, “I 
fancy, Mr. Strange, that you and Gerard Lumby are old 
friends. Reginald has told me so, if I remember aright. " 

“We were at Rugby and Oxford together," Val an- 
swered. 

“ A charming fellow Lumby," said Mr. Jolly — “ a charm- 
ing fellow. Frank, unaffected, English." He spoke with 
an approach of fervor. 

“ He's a good fellow," said Strange — “ a very good fel- 
low. " 

“You moderns," said the host, with great geniality, “ are 
terrible fellows. I have been young myself; I heard the 
chimes at midnight. We thought we traveled at a good 
pace in those days, but you leave us far behind." 

“ How?" inquired Val. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


97 


“ Every way/* said the genial elder — “ every way. You 
travel like tornadoes. You do everything off the reel, 
whether you storm a fort, make a tour round the world, or 
engage yourselves to be married. Nothing takes so long a 
time as it used to take.** 

“ Except dinner,** responded Yal. 

“ Except dinner,** laughed the host. “ Exactly — exactly. 
In all other matters you go headlong. Your friend Gerard, 
for instance, has quite amazed us all.** It was Mr. Jol- 
ly *s constant misfortune that he could not find the juste 
milieu . He was always on this side of the line or the 
other, and in any mood -transparently unreal. 

“What does he want to find out abouIrGerard?** Yal 
asked himself. Believing in the extreme subtlety of his 
own approach, Mr. Jolly advanced behind his mask of 
genial candor. 

“ He might write like Caesar — * I came, I saw, I over- 
came.* It was very sudden; but when young peojile are so 
impetuously resolved, what can old people do but yield? 
And after all, an honest love-match is the best thing. I 
don*t pretend to have any scorn for money. I could very 
well have endured to see my daughter married to a wealthy 
man.** 

“Ah!** thought Yal to himself, “he wants to know the 
true extent of Lumby*s fortune. What an ingenuous, art- 
less old file he is!** A smile, quickly suppressed, played on 
Val*s features, and he added aloud: “People think too 
much of money in affairs of that sort, nowadays, Mr. Jolly. 
And Lumby has a nice little competence, after all.** 

Mr. Jolly turned "upon him a countenance of swift amaze- 
ment, and his jaw fell. “Yes,** he said tremulously — 
whilst, in the words of the great soothsayer, an “ ice-taloned 
pang shot through brain and pericardium ** — “ a nice little 
competence.** Would it be necessary to break off the 
match? A nice little competence merely, was not what 
he wanted. Was it possible that rumor had deceived him? 
The Lumbys kept no style after all, and a mere two thousand 
a year might keep them going as they were. What if the 
wealth were all a bubble? It could not be true. 

Yal, with an inward laugh, came to his relief. “ A very 
nice little competence indeed.** He could not resist the 
temptation to a little solemn chaff at this unskillful fisher- 
man*s expense. “Forgive me, Mr. Jolly, if I exercise so 


98 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


much freedom as to compliment you upon your generosity 
and unworldliness. But even in these extravagant days, a 
young couple may do very well on five-and-twenty thousand 
a year. ” 

The unskillful fisherman breathed again; but even now 
the smile he forced w^as all awry. “ You are surely jesting, 
Mr. Strange. Five-and-twenty thousand a year is a large 
fortune. The Lumbys live as modestly as I do, and I am 
not a wealthy man . 99 

“ Fact, I assure you,” said Val, lightly. “That's the 
tune to which old Lumby's annual income may be said to 
dance into him. I don’t suppose he spends much more 
than a tenth part of it. He is saving everything for 
Gerard. ” 

“You amaze me!” said the disinterested parent. “I 
thought,” he added with a touch of emotion, which seemed 
to him quite proper in the circumstances, “ of nothing but 
my daughter's happiness.” 

“ Of course,” said Val, smiling to think of the fright he 
had given him. 

“ And after all,” said Mr. Jolly, with easy stoicism, 
“wealth and happiness are separate things. Five-and- 
twenty thousand pounds a year! You amaze me, Mr. 
Strange — you amaze me.” 

Mr. Jolly had forgotten the collection of British birds by 
this time; but Yal, mischievously feigning an interest in it, 
went carefully round among the feathered creatures, and 
examined them with great minuteness, until the joke began 
to pall, when he released his host, long since weary but 
unable gracefully to escape. The room in which the col- 
lection was arranged opened upon the* garden, and Mr. 
J oily led the way thither. Strange had not yet encountered 
Constance a second time; but he saw her now standing at 
a window which opened flush upon the lawn. Almost for 
the first time in his life he felt awkward, and his legs and 
his arms seemed a little in his way. He felt her eyes upon 
him, and had a ridiculous contest within himself as to 
whether or not he ought to bow to her, as though he were 
a school-boy, or an aspiring shopman whose study of the 
“ Book of Etiquette ” — priced at sixpence, and written by 
a Member of the Aristocracy — had as yet been incomplete. 
And this was Val Strange, whose eligible bachelorhood had 
introduced him to rank and beauty half over England, and 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


99 


who was rumored quite a killing personage among the fair. 
It was surely somewhat surprising. Constance threw open 
the window and made way for them to enter. 

“My dear/* said her father, “this is Mr. Strange, an 
old friend of Gerard's. This is my daughter, Mr. Strange. '' 

Mr. Strange bowed and plunged into small-talk, whereof 
he was accounted a master. Constance answered with a 
pleased and pleasing vivacity, and VaTs unaccountable 
awkwardness vanished. The great slow Gerard had none 
of the polite arts and no capacity for small-talk in the 
world. When he had a chance of spending an hour with 
Constance, he sat and ‘adored; and being adored, young 
ladies, is dull work in the long run, let me tell you, unless 
you adore in return. Then — ah, then ! who shall say how 
much of heaven's own color is flashed across the sober gray 
of common hours! The proverb says that Love begets 
Love. But that is only true when Love can surround its 
object with sweet observances, not when it can do nothing 
but sit and worship with devout eyes and hungry heart in 
the presence of other people. And since that day when 
Gerard had pleaded his own cause with such success, he 
had never seen Constance alone; and even if he had, might 
scarcely have dared to plead it anew in like manner. And 
so the influence he had gained, faded, and was lost; and a 
noticeable thing came out of it, for no influence that ever 
the world saw set a-rolling yet, stood still before it had set 
something else in motion. Gerard had broken beyond the 
magic circle of maidenly reserve, and it was no longer ab- 
solutely sacred. And beside that was this fact — that Con- 
stance, being disposed of in the matrimonial market, and 
her disposal being known to the world she moved in, was 
not liable to misconstruction if she surrendered herself to 
pleasant human speech with nice people of the sterner sex. 
She was not leading on Val Strange to a declaration — she 
had no need to try to lead anybody to a declaration any 
more. She could be herself and could lay down her guard- 
ing weapons of coldness and hauteur and the rest, and no 
man could come to heart-wreck any more because of her. 
Observe also, that if all men were to be henceforth ac- 
counted safe from her, she also thought herself safe from 
any assault which Love might make. For was she not 
engaged to be married to Gerard? And what made the 
tiling safer yet than safety need be, was that Val Strange 


100 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


was Gerard's friend. And again — to heap up reasons — what 
reasonable young woman thinks that every pleasant man 
with whom she talks is going to fall in love with her? 

On Yaks side, love was far enough away to begin with — 
or at least-seemed so. He acknowledged Constance's beauty, 
as any hut a blind man would have been obliged to do. 
He felt something of the fascination of her manner, but 
as yet not in an alarming degree. He thought Gerard 
a man to he congratulated, hut not as yet a man to be 
envied. 

Gerard was so near a neighbor, that he came over only as 
a privileged guest, and stayed his hour or two, and went 
away again; or made one in a shooting-party, dined after- 
ward at Mr. Jolly's table, and rode home to sleep. Val on 
the other hand was in the house, and saw much more of 
Constance than did her accepted lover. She too saw more 
of him than of Gerard. There was no fancy of unfaithful- 
ness to her mind. Her lover bored her, that was all, and 
the other man amused and interested her. And so the 
tragedy began. 

One day, Constance and Milly — who by this time were 
fast friends, and bound in the bonds of an enduring sister- 
hood, after the manner of young ladies who have known 
each other intimately for a week or two — rode to the meet 
to see the hounds throw off. Mr. Jolly, who had never 
jumped a hedge in his life, used to announce, with a pen- 
sive sigh of regret, that his hunting days were over, and he 
and Val were escort to the ladies. Gerard was at the meet, 
but for some reason unknown forbore to follow the hounds. 
Strange had taken his place at the side of Constance, Mr. 
Jolly was pompously playing at politeness with Milly, when 
Gerard rode after them and joined Constance, assuming 
the position to which his right entitled him. Val fell be- 
hind, and on a sudden black Jealousy rose up in his heart, 
armed, and like a giant. And with that the scales fell 
from his eyes, and he saw, and trembled at the precipice 
upon whose edge he stood, the abyss into which that same 
black giant threatened to toss him. For when Society has 
done its absolute best with a man, when it has given him 
a knowledge of the classics, and taught him a foreign lan- 
guage or two, and dowered him with social gifts, and has in 
short polished him, until he scarce knows himself in his 
new-found brilliance, it has left him at bottom where he 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


101 


was before, and the passions are with him still, eternal 
and ineradicable. Fear, and Eemorse, and Hate, and 
Eage, and Jealousy, and Love, with all the rest, live on 
in spite of civilization, and make life noble, as the soul 
guides them, or make life ignoble, as they guide the soul. 
All human history is built on them, all human life en- 
vironed with them. They fire the deathless lines of 
iEschylus, and sprinkle with dews of Hermon and of Tophet 
great Shakespeare's page: and with them the masters of 
fiction still awe and melt us; and the merest yokel who reads 
the daily papers may see them alive among us to this day. 

And with two of that Titanic band it was Val Strange's 
lot to fight, until he won or fell; for in a battle with the 
passions there is no drawn fight possible. Love and Jealousy 
came out of their hiding-places, and called Honor to the 
conflict. Lumby was Val's friend; but with VH, friend- 
ship was not as it is with some rare man here and there, a 
passion. Yet he was fond of Gerard, and would have done 
much for him. He watched the accepted lover from this 
time in all his interviews with Constance. He could not 
doubt the worship in Gerard's eyes; but he saw no respon- 
sive glance in the maid's when she looked at her declared 
wooer. He saw that Constance brightened when she 
talked with him, that her whole manner was changed and 
iriste when Gerard sat by her. 

“It is a mere sale for money," he cried within himself, 
raging. “ She does not care for him. If I were free to 
plead, she might listen. She might learn to love me. She 
will never care for him. " 

Gerald was blind to Constance's weariness in his own 
presence, and had no jealousy for Yal's advances. He was 
like Othello — once to be in doubt was once to be resolved 
— and he was himself so loyal-hearted, that by nature he 
and Suspicion dwelt in opposite camps, and held no com- 
munion. And so the tragedy went forward. * 


CHAPTEE XII. 

“MARY," SAID HIRAM, MEDITATIVELY, I'VE MADE A 
DISCOVERY." 

In the days when Athens was a fairy city, when Duke 
Theseus, who governed it, was in love with Hippolyta, Queen 
of the Amazons, and Hermia, loving Lysander, was be- 


102 YALENTINE STRANGE. 

loved by Demetrius, even Signor Bottom had liis tender 
passages. And whilst gentlemen owning broad acres and 
living in country mansions in these later days were per- 
turbed by Lovers doings, even an omnibus cad might feel 
his smart. The whole round globe is impartially governed. 
However humiliating it may seem to the devoutly consti- 
tutional mind, royal toes have been plagued with corns and 
crowned heads with tooth-ache; and at the very hour when 
Royalty has gone limping, or with swollen cheek awry, 
the merry goatherd and his tattered lass have played for 
kisses, like Cupid and Campaspe in the ballad. Love, 
monarch of hearts, all hail! Thou levelest men, not as 
Envy would, by pulling down the lofty, but by lifting all 
to equal heights, making a goatherd as happy as a king, 
and an omnibus cad as blest as a country gentleman. 

Hiram, on rare holidays, was a sight worth seeing. All 
the sartorial art of the East could do was done for him. 
In the summer-time, a white hat ; a white w T aistcoast; a 
grass-green scarf, whereon a poet so minded might have 
written a ballad; a nosegay at the button-hole; white gait- 
ers, in spotless contrast with the polish of his shoes — these 
were his signs of holiday. In winter he affected a more 
somber glory, and his dark overcoat bore a collar of sham 
Astrakhan. His scarf was of some subdued crimson, in- 
clining toward maroon; his gloves were edged with fur at 
the wrists; and the natty walking-cane of summer days was 
exchanged for an umbrella. A chain of some metal, which 
he who had faith enough might take for gold, crossed the 
white waistcoat, or lay outside the furred overcoat? accord- 
ing to the season. On these days of splendor, few and far 
between, Hiram would arise early in the morning, and 
would be heard cheerfully whistling whilst he went deftly 
about certain household work, taken upon himself within 
a week of his settlement in his new lodgings. Poor Mrs. 
Martial might well have fancied at first that some Nor- 
wegian troll had by good hap strayed into Whitechapel, 
and assumed the guardianship of her kitchen. Every 
morning Hiram made it as neat as a new pin, lit the fire, 
23olished the copper kettle, black-leaded the hobs and the 
grate, varnished his own boots, washed and dressed, made 
tea, took his own early breakfast, and was gone before the 
household was astir. It was only on holidays that Hiram 
had let loose that mellow whistle; and so, since holidays 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


103 


were so few, the little household had only heard it twice or 
thrice. But one heart had begun to beat at it. When 
Hiram came home at midnight one little head would stir 
upon the pillow, and in the dark, two pallid cheeks grew 
rosy for an instant as the stealthy footstep of the late comer 
passed up the stair. Was ever lodger so helpful and so un- 
exacting? Did ever omnibus conductor pay his rent so 
punctually, since omnibuses first began to run in London 
highways? 

Why should the little milliner’s heart so beat at the 
cheerful tones of Hiram’s mellow whistle? Why? Oh, un- 
discerning querist, not to guess that, by some occult ar- 
rangement, her holiday was made to chime with his. And 
what a difference the letting of the lodgings made! The 
eminent “ Atlas ” once repeated to me a ballad — I know 
not whose; his own, perhaps, for he wrote verse once upon 
a time, and wrote it gracefully — and the burden of the 
ballad was, “ What is a pound?” What is a pound when 
you can afford to spend it on a dinner? What is a penny 
when it stands between you and hunger? A pound? You 
may spend an evening at the opera by means of it. You 
may live on it in London for a fortnight. It may make 
all the difference between slow starvation for a month, and 
plenty for the same period. And this last was just the 
difference it made each month for Mrs. Martial and her 
daughter. Hiram never admitted by word or glance that 
he knew this; but he knew it well. The poor spare room 
had never been let until he took it, and he came to the 
house like a lean American angel, making the physical 
conditions of life just bearable to its inmates, and giving 
them both heart enough to bear more troubles than his 
coming left to them. 

“ Now, Missis Martial, maTim,” said Hiram, one cheer- 
ful morning, when the air was crisp even in London, and 
the sunlight golden, “ where air we goin’?” He was par- 
ticularly gorgeous that morning, With a bit of crimson silk 
handkerchief peeping from his breast-pocket, and a pair of 
buff-colored dogskin gloves dangling in his left hand. 
Mrs. Martial looked at Mary. Mary looked down and 
blushed a little, without knowing why; and Hiram, with a 
polite flourish, bowed to her, and observed to her mother: 
“ We must go, ma’hm, where these attractions may be 
seen.” At tnat Mary’s blush deepened, and the care-worn 


104 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


mother smiled timidly. “ I should like to see your Tower 
of London, ma*hm,** said Hiram, “if I might suggest, an* 
if you air not tired of it. ** 

“ I have never seen the Tower/* said Mrs. Martial. 

“Nor I,** said Mary. 

“ Ladies,** said Hiram, “you surprise me.** They felt 
almost guilty beneath his glance of wonder, and explained 
that Londoners know little of the sights of London, leav- 
ing them for the most part for the exploration of country 
visitors. “ Your Tower of London/* said Hiram, “ is per- 
haps as inter-estin* as any monument in the Old World. It 
is chockful of objects which air hallowed by the touch of 
history. It is interwove with the most remarkable asso- 
ciations of your mo-narchical institutions.** He spoke 
with so much severity, that they decided to wipe out their 
reproach at oiice, and set forth; Hiram giving an arm to 
each, and piloting them along the quieter streets with min- 
gled grace and grandeur. Coming upon busy thorough- 
fares, this comfortable order was perforce abandoned, 
though Hiram still kept Mary*s arm within his, probably 
with a view to instruct her, with the more convenience, in 
the history of the Tower. Beaching that stately edifice in 
course of time, they were 'parceled off with other visitors, 
and then huddled through it, after the senseless manner of 
the place, by a venerable beef-eater, with whom much 
familiarity with its contents had bred contempt, and who 
was* as interested and as interesting as a parrot might have 
been. It was not his fault, poor old fellow. He had 
fought for his country, and the leave to go through this 
dull routine was his reward; and the Tower was a quiet 
haven to him, after a life in camp and barrack and the 
tented field of war. Hiram was severely historical during 
the hurried gabbling run the veteran gave his party; but I 
fancy that for one moment the present drew him from the 
jiast. Visitors to the Tower know one darksome dungeon 
— a mere black-hole in the wall, where one of the noblest 
of English spirits sighed itself slowly toward heaven in 
pious resignation, through weary years of undeserved im- 
prisonment. It was here — if our surmise be true — that 
Hiram' *s interest in history momentarily ceased. He and 
Mary entered this darksome dungeon together, and were 
alone there for the space of perhaps thirty seconds. And 
when they emerged, Mary*s hair and bonnet were, by the 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


105 


merest tifle, disarranged, and she was blushing; whilst Mr. 
Search's hat was the least thing on one side, and a lurking 
smile of satisfaction was in his eyes, though his features 
bore the impress of an imperturbable gravity. Perhaps a 
careful observer might have noticed after this a certain air 
of proprietorship on Hiram's part, a way of disposing of 
Mary's arm, for instance, as though, having kissed her in 
that dungeon — if he really did kiss her — he had sealed her 
for his own. Mr. Search talked a great deal; but he said 
wonderfully little about himself or his own sentiments; 
and yet he and the little maiden seemed to understand 
each other perfectly. Once started, they seemed to be in- 
defatigable as sightseers; and after a rest, they set out for 
the British Museum. Arrived there, what made Mrs. 
Martial pause outside the Egyptian court, whilst the young 
people went in together? Perhaps her excuse of ^fatigue 
was true, though Hiram brought them all the way in a 
four-wheeled cab, as though he had been a millionaire. 
Any way, Hiram and Mary went in, and found themselves 
alone in that solitude of eld; and there, undismayed by the 
presence of the grave Egyptian faces, Hiram repeated the 
experiment, first attempted in the Tower dungeon. They 
sat upon the base of a pedestal on which stands the vast 
presentment of a head, deity or hero. Beneath the plaited 
stone beard, a yard square — Cheops might have known the 
face — the little London milliner and her Yankee lover sat 
and talked together. May be Egyptian lad and lass made 
love on such a pedestal, and found it a pretty pastime, be- 
fore blind Homer begged and sung through Greece. 

“ Mary," said Hiram, meditatively, “I've made a dis- 
covery. 'Bus-conductin' is not the way to fortune. 'Taint 
even one of the ways, an' I shall have to shelve it. Same 
time, it's reg'lar work, an' brings in reg'lar money, an' I 
don't want to be throwed loose again. When I was in 
Boston, I used sometimes to get a piece o’ work in a printin'- 
office p'raps two days a week. While I was at it, I used 
to earn as much as I do now in a week; but workin' by 
flashes, an' idling three parts of the time, it was like tryin' 
to warm your house with gunpowder. An' I don't want 
to do that. I want to keep the fire burnin' steady, and 
burnin' always; not to have, now a flare, an' now nothin' but 
the smoke. So I can't throw over what I've got till some- 
thin' else turns up." 


106 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


To this sensible view of things, Mary gave complete ad-* 
hesion; and they sat and discussed the future. Or rather 
Hiram discussed the future, and Mary listened, believing 
him. Mrs. Martial, sitting outside, had her own thoughts. 
She knew the situation and accepted it with some natural 
reluctance. Mr. Search was kind; Mr. Search was honest 
and gentle and manly; but if things had gone otherwise 
than they had, she might have looked higher for her 
daughter. Meantime, Hiram had not even seemed to 
think of marriage, except as connected with fortune; and 
he was so confident of getting on in the world, that he in- 
spired both the women-folk with his own certainties. 
When he and Mary had settled what was to be by their 
own desires, like people who make much more noise in the 
world, they strayed back from the stony remnants of old 
Egypt, and Hiram took the ladies to dinner. In the even- 
ing, they went to the play, and Hiram chose for them Mr. 
Dillon's once celebrated performance of “ Belphegor,” 
which he had seen advertised in America. And when they 
had all three laughed and sorrowed with the mountebank, 
they went home in an omnibus, and the holiday w T as over. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ THAT COIN IS MARKED,” SAID HIRAM, SERIOUSLY; “I 

sha'n't take another.” 

Hiram went back to work, and plotted all day how to 
force Fortune to his own pattern, and thought of many 
w^ays, though none of them seemed to answer. In his 
studies of the daily papers, he came again and again upon 
the phrase, “ Plans and particulars sent free on applica- 
tion;” and as an example of the direction his thoughts 
continually took, I give the scheme which this suggested 
to him. “ S'posin', now,” said Hiram to himself, hanging 
behind his T>us, and turning this fancy over, “I was to 
take a bureau, and make a list of every one of these coons, 
and send a letter to each of 'em. ‘ Search & Co's Adver- 
tising Office . Mister. Be so good as send to us in future 
all plans and particulars of sales by your noted firm. 
Yourn truly, Hiram K. Search & Co/ Reckon theer's a 
thousand on 'em. That takes five pound to post 'em all. 


YALEKTItfE STRANGE. 


10 7 


One expense an* done with. Reckon,, again, theer*s an av- 
erage of one sale a day, an* each packet weighs four ounces, 
what with postin* bills, auctioneers* catalogues, an* wrap- 
pers. That*s two hundred an* fifty pound- weight; fifteen 
hundred pound-weight a week. Sell it for waste to the 
paper-mills at a farthin* a pound — that*s a trifle over thirty 
shillin* a week, English money.** Having completed this 
calculation, Hiram smiled. “Thirty shillin* a week. j 
That*s so. An* when you*ve cleared your expenses, if you: 
do, you air pro-vided for by a government which is proud; 
to recognize financial talent. Pro-vided for, say at Port- ' 
land or some other ekally attractive quarters, for at least 
five years. No, my inventive young friend, we will not 
perform in that particular show. ** 

But there was no possible financial enterprise in the di- 
rection of which Hiram did not at one time or another cast 
his thoughts. 

A week after the holiday, he went home to his lodgings 
at the usual hour, and was surprised to find a light in two 
of the front windows. Entering with a presentment of 
evil on his mind, he encountered Mary, standing at the 
door with a candle in her hand. “Mr. Search,** she whis- 
pered. 

“ Hiram,** he said correcting her lightly, though he could 
see that some trouble weighed upon her. “ What*s the 
matter?** 

“ I sat up to see you,** she said hesitatingly, “ to ask 
you—** 

“ Yes, my dear,** said Hiram, taking the candle in his 
hand — “ to ask me — ** 

“ Oh, Mr. Search,** she whispered, in such evident dis- 
tress that it pained him to see it, “I scarcely know how to 
ask you. Y ou have been so good, and we have tried your 
kindness so often — ** 

“ Mary,** said Hiram putting his arm around her waist, 
“don*t you lose my respect for you. I won*t have you 
talkin* nonsense. You air naturally the wisest as well as 
the prettiest little gell in London, an* I don*t want you to 
fall into any ridic*lousnesses. Now, my dear.** 

“ Hiram,** she began again — and he, with a nod of bright 
approval and a little pressure of the arm which encircled 
her waist bent down to listen— “ mother is ill, seriously 
ill.** 


108 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“Dear, now!” said Hiram, gently, drawing her nearer 
to him. 

“We are so miserably poor just now!” said the girl, 
speaking softly still, but with difficulty through her fast- 
rising tears. “ The doctor ordered quinine, wine, and beef- 
tea.” 

“ Did he, now?” asked Hiram, patting the wet cheek. 

“ And I had to pawn a jacket and some other things to 
get them; and now they are gone; and I have no more 
money, and nothing left to take — ” 

“My darling” said Hiram, pitifully. 

“And will you,” she whispered, sobbing still, “let us 
have the week’s rent in advance, this once? I am so 
ashamed to ask you ” — she would have drawn away from 
him; but his arm restrained her — “you have been so good 
and generous ever since 3^011 came.” 

“ Now, now, now,” said Hiram, patting the wet cheek 
again, “ I wish I was a millionaire; but I ain’t. You wait 
a minute, an’ I’ll be down again.” He left her, and 
mounted the stairs with long silent strides, and returned in 
a few minutes with a lean chamois-leather purse. “ It’s only 
nine shillin’,” said he mournfully; “ but I shall have more 
by and by.” He placed his hand above her lips, when 
she would have thanked him. “You just leave a note 
for me, if you should want me in the mornin’. How long 
has she been ailin’?” 

“ Ever since the day we went out together,” the girl 
answered. 

“ Mebbe a bit tired,” said Hiram, soothingly. “Don’t 
you fret, my pretty. And if you want anythin’, ask me 
f ir it, an’ if I can get it, you shall have it; an’ if you don’t. 
I’ll never forgive you, not if you was to love me all your 
life-time as well as I love you. An’ that,” added Hiram to 
himself, “you never will, because why on airth should 
you?” He left her there with a kiss, and mounted again to 
his own room, where, by the light of a single dim candle, 
he sat solemnly down at a small green-painted deal table, 
and surveyed himself in an oblong mirror some eight inches 
by six. It was not vanity which taught him to thus gaze 
upon him elf. “’Taint your face an’ figger, Hiram, my 
lad, that makes the little gell cling to you, you fortooitous 
concourse of disadvantageous anatomical circumstances! 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


109 


Wall, that's a pretty phrase, I vow, an' it has the merit o' 
being fairly descriptive. Yes, sir. It pokes you up in the 
identical cave you live in. You air a for tooitous concourse 
of disadvantageous anatomical circumstances. That, sir, is 
your personal ticket. An' yet, Hiram," he continued laying 
down the mirror, aud rubbing his lean cheek thoughtfully 
with the tips of his fingers, “it ain't the prettiest men as 
the best gells care for. No, sir. Grit tells. An', Hiram, 
you're takin' noo responsabilities, an' grit is wanted. Now 
I tell you, sir, an' I tell you straight, that if theer is in your 
ugly figger one soft place, it's got to be macadam 'd; fur I 
am not goin' to let that poor little creetur' mire her feet by 
walkin' over any swampy spots in you. That may be fig- 
gerative; but mymeanin's clear. You air not a sentiment- 
al party, Hiram, an' so fur as I know you, you never 
wrote a set o' verses in your life; but you know as well as 
I do, theer's nothin' in the world, np blessin' in it, like a 
good woman's love. An' how you got it, I du lino, but got 
it you have. Take care of it; be worthy of it, Hiram, an' 
your personal appearance will not count. An honest man, 
if he's as ornery-lookin' as Zebedee Pitman, can give 
Apoller p'ints, an' then knock chunks off him." And with 
this moral reflection, Hiram began slowly and gravely to 
disrobe, and in a few minutes was sound asleep. 

There was no note for Hiram in the morning; but he 
wrote and left upon the kitchen table a small missive, ask- 
ing that news of the patient's progress should be left for 
him that night. Just three words answered this, “ Mother 
is better," written in a thin hand, upon a scrap of letter 
paper; but in the very dead and hollow of the following 
night, Hiram, always a light sleeper, was awakened by a 
creaking sound; and sitting upright in the dark, listened. 
Light footsteps went hastily to and fro, and were lost on 
the carpeting of the lower room. Then Hiram heard a 
voice groaning; and having struck a light, he hurried on 
his clothes, and went to see what was the matter. Mary, 
with a scared face, was coming up the stairs when she 
caught sight of him. 

“ Is she worse " he asked. “ You want a doctor. Tell 
me where he lives?" Armed with the doctor's address, he 
was away at full speed, rang up the medical man, and 
brought him home. The doctor kept a small dispensary 
in a poor and crowded neighborhood. Poverty and sick- 


110 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


ness were so common in his locality that he had grown 
somewhat hard. 

“My fee ,” he said, as they walked together, “ is five 
shillings.” 

“ Very well,” said Hiram sadly. 

“ I can’t afford,” said the poor medico, “to come for 
less at such a time of night.” 

“ Very well,” said Hiram again; and they walked on in 
silence through the sleeping streets. Reaching the house, 
Hiram opened the door with his latch-key, and sat down in 
the darkness of the lower room to wait. In a few minutes 
he heard the medical man descending, and went into the 
narrow hall, faintly illumined by the street-lamp, to meet 
him. “ How is she?” 

“ Come with me,” was the answer, “ and I will give you 
a mixture. ” Again they passed into the streets together. 

' “Relatives of yours?” asked the doctor as they walked, 
nodding his head backward toward the house. 

“No,” said Hiram; “I’m only a lodger there. How is 
she?” 

“It’s a gone case I should say,” returned the doctor. 
“ There’s just a chance for her, and that’s all.” 

Hiram made no answer; and they reached the dispensary 
in silence; and there, from his meager store of drugs, the 
doctor made up the best prescription his means allowed. 
“ Five shillings,” he said as he handed the bottle to Hiram. 

“ Keep that till I bring the money to you,” said the ’bus 
* conductor, detaching his imitation gold chain from his 
waistcoat, and drawing forth the showy cheap aluminum 
or oroide watch. “ I haven’t got it with me.” The doc- 
tor took it reluctantly and with some grumbling; and 
Hiram sped away with the medicine. A police officer 
looked suspiciously at him as he raced along; but, reflect- 
ing probably on his own inability to compete with Hiram’s 
lengthy legs, forbore to pursue him. Running all the 
way, Hiram burst breathless into the street he lived in; 
and there, lest his hurried footsteps should disturb the pa- 
tient, subdued his haste and walked on tiptoe. Having 
given up the medicine, he whispered: “I shall be in the 
kitchen if you want me;” and before the girl had time to 
remonstrate, he was gone. He sat alone in the darkness, 
thinking, until the house had dropped once more into mid- 
night stillness, and at last fell uncomfortably to sleep*. 




VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Ill 


awaking every now and again with great nods, which 
seemed almost to shake him from his chair. At the usual 
hour, he lit the fire, guessing the time by the look of the 
outside air, performed all the small household duties he 
had taken upon himself, and went out. The morning was 
raw and foggy, an*d as the day went on, the fog deepened. 
His anxieties grew so, that at midday, finding a temporary 
substitute, and promising him payment for his services, he 
pleaded illness, and went home again, and heard worse 
news than ever of the patient. Going to his own room, 
he opened a little drawer, and taking out a small bag, 
made search within it until he found, in a corner, amongst 
odds and ends of thread and a score of buttons of various 
patterns, the half-sovereign which Gerard Lunaby had 
given him, carefully treasured until now. 

“I don't like parting with it," he murmured, as he turn- 
ed it over. “ If I'd ha' spent it in a racket of any sort, I 
should ha' felt like flyin' in the face o' Providence. But 
it's a good cause — an' yet I don't like partin' with it." 
Suddenly his face brightened; and putting the coin care- 
fully in his pocket, he left the house, and walked the 
streets, with curious glances at the shop-windows and the 
signs, blurred with the fog. Coming at last to a pawn% 
broker's, he entered, pushed aside a swinging-door, and 
found himself in a wooden box with a counter before him. 

“What do you want?" asked the boy behind the coun- 
ter. 

“What will you give me on that?". asked Hiram, pro- 
ducing the half-sovereign and laying it on the counter. 

“Why, wodder yer talkid about?" asked the boy, who 
was probably of Hebraic extraction. “ That's half a 
thick-ud. Get out!" He said this playfully, as if in re- 
sponse to a humorous overture. 

But Hiram's face was grave. “ That's a half-a-sovereigin" 
he said solemnly; “worth ten.shillin', ain't it? What will 
you lend on it? I wouldn't part with that coin for five- 
pound. It's alf the money I've got, an' I want to realize 
on it; an' when I can get it back, I shall come for it." 

“Are yer id eardest?" asked the boy. Hiram nodded 
with funeral solemnity. “All right," said the boy, with 
his beady Jewish eyes a-glitter. “Nine shillings." Hiram 
nodded again. “ What's yer name?" 


112 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ Hiram Kysarchichus Search/* responded the client 
gravely. 

“'What?” said the boy. Hiram repeated it. “Here/* 
said the boy, pushing the pawn-ticket and the pen across 
the counter. “ Write it dowd yerself.** 

Hiram wrote it in a clerkly hand; and the hoy, having 
demanded and received a halfpenny for the ticket, handed 
over nine shillings, and the transaction was complete. 

“ That coin is marked/* said Hiram seriously. “ I sha*n*t 
take another.** 

dThe boy turned it over, and looking sideways at Hiram 
from the corners of his eyes, passed his thumb and finger 
across each side of it. His trained and cunning touch de- 
tected the mark, and fixing a watchmakers glass to his 
eye, he read, “G.L. to H.K.S.** 

“All* right/* said he, folding it into a little parcel, and 
tossing it into a drawer, after pinning it to its ticket dupli- 
cate. 

Hiram then left the shop, and again made his way to the 
dispensary, where, the doctor being at that time abroad, he 
left word for him to follow on his return. It was already 
late in the evening when the doctor again reached the house. 
He spent but a brief time in the sick-room, and then de- 
scending, took Hiram by the sleeve and drew him into the 
street where the fog drove in visible billows across the 
bleared flicker of the lamps. 

“ It will be all over in a few hours/* he said. “ She asked 
me, and I told her so. There is somebody she wants to see, 
and I have sent her daughter to her. Have you got the five 
shillings? Thank you. Here*s the watch. 1 sha*n*t charge 
for this visit, because I*ve not been able to do anything. I 
shall come round to make out the certificate in the morn- 
ing.** It was an every-day matter with him, and practice 
had taught him an outer hardness. 

Hiram went back to the little front-room, and sat there 
until Mary came down. “ My dear/* he said, “you must 
get a nurse.** He dreaded what he knew was coming, and 
could not bear to think of the helpless girl alone at such a 
time. 

“ Our next-door neighbor is a nurse/* said the girl. “ I 
can ask her to come in. But I want to go to Fleet Street. 
My — my father lives there, and mother says she must see 
him.** 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 113 

“ You call in the nurse, while I go to Fleet Street,” said 
Hiram. “ Give me the number.” 

She gave him full instructions; and he set out, and re- 
membering the doctor's words, “It will be all over in a few 
hours,” he leaped into a cab, forgetful of his scanty store 
of money, and drove hastily. Then came the interviews 
already chronicled, and then the silent watches of the night; 
and for Hiram in his loneliness, and Mary in her terror- 
stricken watch, as for Garl^ng in his sleep, with every pass- 
ing second the warp and woof of Circumstance shot in and 
out,, and not one of the three had any knowledge of the 
web which Time's swift shuttle was weaving; 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“YOU LOOK WRETCHED, VAL, WHAT IS IT?” 

It befell that although Gerard Lumby made little prog- 
ress enough with Constance in those little parlor en- 
counters, in which, perhaps, the most earnest of lovers is 
the least likely to thrive, he talked with a lover's enthusi- 
asm outside her presence, and chose Val Strange, of all men 
in the world, to talk to. Val, dreading his own love all 
the while, listened to him with such heart-burnings as may 
be imagined, but gave no sign. 

Mr. J oily, in the meantime, kept his house en fete for a 
whole winter month, and was almost crowded from his own 
rooms by guests. Gerard having proclaimed V al great in 
private theatricals and charades, that young gentleman 
was installed as a sort of amateur manager of the Grange 
revels. This partly delighted and partly frightened him. 
No man schools himself to dishonor in a day. The shift- 
less, helpless, sponging spendthrift, the hopeless drunkard, 
the betrayer, the sharper — all have had their remorses, 
their struggles, their backward longings toward relinquished 
honor, or at least their piteous glances that way cast. And 
Val Strange was less than most men fitted to be a happy 
wrong-doer. By nature candid and kindly, and greatly 
careful of the good opinion of the world, he was sure to 
suffer horribly if he played any man false; and here was 
temptation growing almost too much for him. He was torn 
by love and jealousy, and drank alternate draughts of sweet 
and bitter poison. The poison was sweet when he stood 


114 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


alone with his friend's plighted wife and talked with her, 
and drank the beauty of her face and voice, and the ex- 
quisite intoxication of her presence; or when his arm 
circled her in some slow waltz, and they moved, as on air 
together, to the dying falls of Strauss's melodies when the 
music sighed as if foredone with pleasure half grown into 
pain. Bitter the poison — how bitter, only Jealousy can 
know — when the unsuspecting Gerard came to claim his 
right, and talked with her — walked, rode, drove, danced 
with her, always with right on his side, and the surety of 
an admitted claim. And much as the rages which some- 
times filled him taught him to fear himself, he feared Ger- 
ard too, by an instinct which warned him that the latter 
was the last • man whom it might be wise to turn from a 
friend into an enemy. Yet perhaps I do Strange some in- 
justice here, for he had physical courage enough, and it 
may he that his dread of Gerard was of a better sort. To 
face eyes once friendly, and now full of hatred and re- 
proach — to give any man the right to say, “ You have 
played the villain, false friend," might well inspire more 
dread than a man could summon at any mere physical 
call. 

At last, in his miseries and perplexities, Yal made one 
resolve, and as the outcome of it, he sat down and wrote 
this letter to his old yachting companion : 

“My dear Gilbert, — I am in the dullest hole I ever 
got into in my life. I can not escape with any degree of 
grace under a fortnight, and I am in danger of being bored 
to death. Pray send me a telegram, purporting to come 
from any fictitious personage whom you may be pleased to 
invent for the occasion, advising me of important business, 
and insisting upon my return. Do this for old friendship's 
sake. * I do adjure thee, by old pleasant days,' make the mes- 
sage sufficiently urgent to bear me away without apology. I 
am peppered, I warrant you; and if your telegram should 
come later than to-morrow, it will find me indeed a grave 
man. Yours, 

. “Val Strange." 

The resolve to write this was not arrived at without 
much trouble, although it is one thing to determine and 
another to do. When he had sent it away, he thought of 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


115 


all he was leaving, and half wished it recalled. He went 
sleepless nearly all night, and tossed to and fro upon his 
bed undecided. Now he was all for flight, and now flight 
seemed so cruel as to be impossible. There are some pangs 
it is not in human nature to endure voluntarily. When he 
presented himself at the breakfast-table, he looked ill, and 
Constance, who sat near him, spoke of it. 

“ It is nothing,” he responded — “ a headache.” 

People gave him their condolences, and it cost him a 
great effort to keep his temper. Breakfast over, he retired 
to his own room and brooded there, longing and dreading 
to be called away. By and by a young man on a dirty 
gray pony rode up the drive and delivered an envelope, 
buff-colored, and bearing, side by side with Mr. Strange's 
name and present address, the inscription, “ Five shillings 
for porterage.” The footman leisurely sought out Mr. 
Strange, who, tearing open the envelope, read: “From 
Browne, 13 Mount Street. Everything going to smash. 
Must have you up at once, or we shall both be broken.” 

“Anything to pay?” asked Val, grinding his teeth at 
the clumsiness of the message, 

“ Five shillings, sir,” said the footman. 

Val gave him the money, and dismissed him. 

“ I can't show this to anybody!” he cried aloud, crossing 
the room ill-temperedly. “ What a fool a man must be to 
send such a message!” He was so eager to stay, so unwill- 
ing to go, that he was ready to catch at any straw of self- 
delusion. He tried to persuade himself that since he could 
not reasonably show to anybody this ridiculous message, he 
could not allow it to call him away; but he was not yet so 
blind as to allow that fraud to pass. “Shall I go?” he 
asked himself. “ I must go.” He paced to and fro in the 
room. “ I can't go.” Reginald Jolly's words came some- 
how into his mind. “ You are always in the primrose way,” 
and his own flippant answer, “I like primroses.” He 
stood still in a sudden hot rebellion against Fate. “ Let it 
lead me where it Avill, I take the primrose way. The other 
road is too thorny. Yet, where will this way lead? Where 
will it lead?” He clinched his hands and dropped them by 
his side, and said very quietly and softly, “ Let it lead me 
where it will, I take it. ” He tore the telegram through and 
through, until his hands had no grip upon it to tear it further, 
and cast the fragments broadcast on the floor. Then he went 


116 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


slowly down-stairs, and meeting Reginald in the hall, he 
said languidly, “ Rags, old man, I think a little stir in the 
open would do me good. W ill you come down to the war- 
ren and have a pot at the rabbits for an hour?" 

Reginald assented, with a look of some anxiety at Yaks 
face. Folly is not only left unjustified of all her children, 
but she rarely manages to justify herself to them, or even 
enable them to justify themselves to themselves. A man 
born and bred within Folly's kingdom is sometimes happy 
there. You may almost unfailingly know him by his smug 
contentment. He knows no othefi- boundaries. His own 
walks content him. He mocks wisdom, and disdains hu- 
mailty. His conversational chalk-stones are to him more 
precious than the rubies of the wise. He is wise in his 
own conceit. Like Dogberry, he prays you, write him 
down an ass. It is his glory to be bald. Like the fox 
that lost his tail in the fable, he would fain have you also 
shorn. One touch of wisdom would ruin his complacency. 
But for a man born outside the demense of folly, to stray 
into it, is to walk into a very atmosphere of misery. “ Let it 
lead me where it will, I take the primrose way. '' There will 
come a day, Yal Strange, when no road could seem more 
awful to your eyes than that flowery path wherein your feet 
are set. Glad youth who mayest read this story, and haply 
take pleasure in it, I, thy poor lop-sided fellow-creature, 
who, with Hamlet, may own to having more offenses at my 
back than thoughts to put them in — I, who can put on no 
garb of saintliness, am not constituted the preacher of any 
sect, bid thee have pity on thyself that is to be, and cheer- 
ish Honor as thy friend. So shall the primrose spring 
behind thee — in sweet companionship with all sweet flowers 
— and when thy frequent feet in age shall travel again 
where thou hast trodden in thy heedful youth, the way shall 
be gracious, thy going shall be pleasant, and thy heart at 
rest. But still Will Waterproof's song is not without 
proof: 

[For] others' follies tench us not; 

Nor much their wisdom teaches: 

And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

And every man must dree his own weird, and fight his own 
giants, to slay them, or to be led to captivity, as he himself 
may choose. 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 117 

“ You look wretched, Val," said the little man, laying a 
friendly hand on him. “ What is it?" 

“I am worried and unwell," said Yal, ready to vent 
himself on anybody, and really angry at Gilbert. “ I've 
just had a most idiotic telegram from a fellow in town. I 
suppose he regards himself as a practical joker, and thinks 
it fun to wire disturbing nonsense to a fellow. Wants me 
to go to London." 

“ If it's at all important," said Eeginald, “ don't think 
about the theatricals. We can let them slide easily enough. 
Who is it?" 

“That ass, Gilbert," said Yal, unguardedly. “It's a 
thing of no importance." Just then a man came racing 
down the field they had just entered, bearing in one hand 
a salver and in the other a buff envelope. 

“For me?" asked Eeginald. 

“No, sir," gasped the man; “for Mr. Strange." He 
placed the envelope on the salver, and handed it to Yal, 
who opened it, read it at a glance, and burst into an ex- 
ecration. “ No chaff in last wire," ran the message. 
“ Things really awfully serious. Come up at once." Yal 
impetuously tore the missive into a hundred pieces. The 
servant gaped at him in open wonder. 

“ What are you standing and staring there for, you im- 
pudent scoundrel?" cried Yal, catching sight of him sud- 
denly. 

“ Five shillings for porterage, sir," returned the serv- 
ant; “mounted messenger, sir." 

“Hang the five shillings!" shouted Val, inconsequently, 
as he handed to the man, or rather half threw at him, a 
half-sovereign. “Keep the change, confound you!" 

“ Gentleman's bark ain't very dreadful," mused the 
servitor, as he departed; “and he haven't got a bite in 
him, seemin'ly." 

“Val," said Eeginald, “what is it? Can I be of any 
use to you?" 

“ It's nothing," said Strange, laughing vexedly. “ I 
ought to be able to take a joke with better temper, how- 
ever stupid it might be. Come along, and let us have a 
pot at the bunnies. " 

“Of course I know nothing about the matter," said 
Eeginald; “but is there a chance of its not being a joke 
after all?" 


118 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ 1 tell you/ 3 cried Strange pettishly, “ there’s nothing in 
it. ” And Reginald said ho more, and they crossed the 
held in silence. Yal had no care for sport, and having 
had two or three chances, and having missed them all, he 
sat upon a tree -trunk and smoked discontentedly. “ Fly 
while you may,” the inward monitor whispered. “Fly 
from this enchantmant, lest it madden you. ” The whisper 
never left him. “Go!” it urged him — “go! It is your 
only safety.” Keginald, meeting with better success than 
his companion, was keenly set upon the pleasure of the 
hour; and having hallooed once or twice to him, and re- 
ceived no response, wandered wide of where Strange sat. 

“Mister Keginald!” shouted a panting voice* 

“Hillo!” he cried in answer. “ This way.” • 

A serving-man came bursting through the bushes of a 
neighboring spinney. “ Is Mr. Strange along with you, 
sir?” he panted. “ Here’s another telegram, sir.” 

Reginald smiled, and lifting his voice on high, called 
aloud to his friend. 

“ Hillo!” roared the recluse in answer; and guided by 
his voice, the two made way toward him. 

“ Here’s another message,” said the bald-headed youth, 
grinning broadly. “ Excuse me for laughing, but it’s too 
comic. ” 

“ Is it?” said Yal, sardonically. Again the mythic 
Browne of 13 Mount Street insisted upon his return : “ Your 
affairs menaced on all hands. Necessary to consult Boyd 
at once. Wire answer. Come up by next express. Urgent.” 
This time the recipient of the telegram dropped his hands 
like one resigned. “ Anything for porterage?” 

“Yes, sir,” the man responded; “ five shillings, sir.” 

“Ah! Have you change. Jolly? Thanks. Tell the 
messenger,” he said to the man, “ that if any more tele- 
grams come for me to-day, they can wait until the letter- 
bag is sent up. Look at that, Rags,” he continued, languidly, 
handing the telegram to him. “ That’s the third I’ve had 
to-day. Isn’t it enough to make a man angry?” 

“Who’s Boyd?” asked Reginald. 

“ I don’t know Boyd from Adam,” Val returned. 

“ Hillo!” cried Reginald suddenly. “ Look here, Yal. 
There must be something in it after all. You said it was 
Gilbert who sent the others. This is from Browne, of No. 
13 Mount Street. ” 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


119 


Val blushed a little at this; but answered quietly and 
wearily: “That, I suppose,, is part of the joke. I don’t 
know anybody named Browne. I don't know Mount Street. 
Where is Mount Street? Who is Browne? Did I say Gil- 
bert? Gilbert East, I meant. Ah, you don't know him. ” 
Oh, Val Strange, Val Strange, that a man once honorable 
should lie so glibly! But somehow the atmosphere of 
the primrose way sets Honor off to sleep, as the air in the 
Enchanted Grounds did with the Pilgrims in Bunyan’s al- 
legory. 

- “ I can’t conceive,” said Reginald, “ that any man would be 

such an ass as to send a message like this without a mean- 
ing. I should go and see wliat is the matter. You can 
catch the one o’clock train, and be back here by three 
o’clock to-morrow. There might be something in it. There 
must be something in it!” 

Here were accidents urging Val to his salvation, and the 
inward voice urged him: “Go! it is your only safety! Go!” 
And for the moment it so far triumphed with him that he 
answered: “Yes; I think I’ll run up, if it’s only for the 
pleasure of horsewhipping Gilbert— East. ” The pause was 
scarcely noticeable; but the bald-headed youtli was keen, 
and there was something in this whole matter which went 
beyond his penetration for the present, and piqued his curi- 
osity. 

“Yes,” he said with his keen eyes on Val’s face, “I 
think I should horsewhip Gilbert — East.” Val’s color 
changed ever so little. “ What is it?” asked Reginald of 
himself. “He is making a mystery of something or other. 
Well, it’s no affair of mine.” 

“ Come,” said Val, taking up his gun; “ let us go up to 
the house. I must pack. He tried to hope that, being 
once away from the attraction which so strenuously held 
him, he might be able to stop away altogether.. Perhaps 
he began to find the primrose way already thorny. They 
went up to the house silently; and Val having ordered his 
own man to pack his portmanteau, made his excuses to his 
host, and started. 

Reginald drove him to the station. “ Let me know,” 
said he, as the train came clanking in, “ if it’s all right 
when you get there. I shall be anxious till I hear. ” 

Strange promised; and in another minute was rolling to- 
ward London. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


120 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ SHE LOYES ME. I SHALL Y\ r ILsT HER YET.” 

“ Perhaps,” thought Strange, as the train bore him 
swiftly toward the great metropolis, “ it is the best thing 
that could have happened that Gilbert should have carried 
his jest so far. I can’t step in between Lumby and the 
woman he is going to marry. And yet — she does not love 
him. It’s the merest marriage of convenience. She 
brightens wdien I go near her, and Lumby ’s coming makes 
her dull at once. (And this was not his egotism, but the 
simple truth.) “I can’t leave her! Never see her again?” 
Oh, vacant world! Let any man who has loved, remember 
what such a prospect seemed to him in the hot-blooded 
days of youth. The conflicting purposes in his mind so tore 
him, that by the time at which the train reached the termi- 
nus, his nerves were trembling and twitching, and he was 
so irritable as to be downright hungry for a quarrel with 
anybody who might present himself. He had chambers 
in town, which he had for the past year used rarely, and to 
them he dispatched his man, whilst he himself took a cab 
and sought out Gilbert. That ardent chum lived in Dane’s 
Inn; and Yal, eagerly dashing from his cab, rushed up the 
court-yard, nearly overturning the old Crimean commis- 
sionaire in his haste, and reaching Gilbert’s door, rained 
such a shower of blows upon it, that the startled echoes 
rolled and tumbled over one another down the darkened 
staircase, in their haste to answer. Mr. Gilbert in person' 
responded to this urgent summons. 

“Hillo, Val! That’s you, old man. Delivered from 
the house of bondage, eh?” Strange glared at him from 
the semi-darkness; but the expression of his face being 
unseen by Gilbert, that young gentleman flowed on: 
“ Come in. Had to take strenuous measures — hadn’t I? 
Thought I’d make ’em strong enough to lift you. Come 
in.” 

“ You unmitigated ass!” said Val, fairly boiling over. 

“ Eh?” said Gilbert. “Oh!” A slow smile lit up his 
broad mid-England countenance. “ Overdid it a bit, eh?” 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 121 

“ What did you mean by piling message on message in 
that idiotic way?” 

“ Here's gratitude,” said Gilbert, with appealing hands 
spread abroad. “ Here's a specimen of thankfulness for 
friendship's toils! — Come in,” he continued, clawing Yal 
by the shoulder and dragging him into the little hall. 

“ Three shillings for expenses; and sixpence for a drink 
to the commissionaire! You can't grumble at that — three 
journeys — twopence a journey. Handover.” Yal walked 
up and down in the ^sitting-room, heaping contumely on 
the overzealous Gilbert. “ Three-and-six,” was that gen- 
tleman's sole response to all objurgations. 

Strange, taking an inward survey of himself became con- 
scious of his own condition, and made an effort after calm- 
ness. “ I don't want to quarrel,” lie said. 

“No?” interjected the stolid Gilbert incredulously. 

“ Don't irritate me, there's a good fellow. I've had one 
or two things to disturb me, and the last straw may break 
the back of human patience.” 

“You give me three shillings for the telegrams,” said 
Mr. Gilbert, humorously,” and pay me back the sixpence 
I gave the commissionaire, and I'll let the matter sleep.” 

“ There's your money,” cried Val, throwing it on the 
table. “Don't speak to me again.” 

Mr. Gilbert gathered up the money and threw it out of 
the open window. “ Don't you go into any more dull 
houses,” he answered; “ or if you do, don't ask me to lug 
you out of 'em!” Val was striding from the room ; but 
Gilbert laid a hand upon his shoulder. “ Look here, Val,” 
he said; “ a joke's a joke.” 

“And an ass, an ass,” said Yal in answer, and disap- 
peared majestic. 

“Mr. Strange!” cried Gilbert, following to the head of 
the staircase — Val was half-way down, and made no re- 
sponse — “Mr. Strange!” Val paused; perhaps Gilbert 
was going to propose a meeting, to avenge his outraged 
feelings. “ You'll find your three-and-sixpenee in the court- 
yard, Mr. Strange,” said Gilbert, in a voice of smoothest 
courtesy, and thereafter he exploded into a peal of laughter, 
which echoed up and down the hollow staircase, and pur- 
sued the unhappy Val half-way to the entrance of the Inn. 

Driving to his own rooms, the young man found their 
solitude unbearable, and wandered aimlessly into the 


122 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


streets. There any chance object caught his eye and 
claimed attention with a foolish exigence which irritated 
him, though he submitted to it. A porcelain vase in 
a shop window, a looking-glass surrounded by diminutive 
Cupids and Brobdingnagian wreaths of dowers; a coal- 
scuttle; the presentment of an imbecile Madonna framed 
in smoke-dried oak, and otherwise striving to look old; the 
exposed steel of a case of surgical instruments — anything 1 
seemed to be good enough to stare at. He wasted a little, 
vacant observation upon each of these things, and upon 
many more, until, pausing to examine, with needless curi- 
osity, a thermometer which hung in an Oxford Street op- 
tician^ window, and having slaked that futile interest, he 
was about to turn away, when suddenly beside the ther- 
mometer, he saw a face which all this time had dwelt 
within his thoughts. It was a cabinet photograph, and so 
life-like an expression that it almost startled him. For one 
minute he was amazed, but in the next he became angry. 
By what right did any rascally shop-keeper dare to exhibit 
this sacred face to the public gaze? He was ready to quar- 
rel with anybody, and entered the shop. Luckily, there 
were one or two people there already and he had time to 
cool. He had no right to ask an account of the shopman; 
but being there, he must do something, and so, in place of 
making a disturbance about the photograph, he bought it. 
With the lovely face lying against his heart, he walked 
homeward. Reaching his own rooms, he set the photo- 
graph before him, and looked at it long and eagerly. 
Beautiful, impassive, smiling, it looked back at him, and 
the fancy which passion li#s always at command gave it 
life and color. Fate beckoned him as he looked, and her 
gesture was imperative, because .he was willing to obey her. 
When men choose to yield Fate is always imperative. 

Seeking, amongst a lot of tumbled papers in a drawer, 
for an envelope large enough to hold the photograph, he 
found but one, on the back of which were scrawled a num- 
ber of lines, which he remembered once to have been 
chosen haphazard from ShakesjDeare for mottoes in some 
Christmas sport. They had been written in pencil, with 
one exception, and were now faded and half illegible. The 
one exception was a line of Longaville’s in “ Love's Labor’s 
Lost" — “Thy grace being gained, cures all disgrace in 
me." 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


123 


“ There is my motto/* said Val. “ Thy grace being 
gained, cures all disgrace in me.** He kissed the photo- 
graph, and put it in the envelope, and sealed it there. 
He had no more doubts about going back now. He 
had no plans, no resolves. What would come, might 
come; and he was content henceforth to drift with the tide, 
and to go withersoever it might carry him. And being in 
haste to meet Fate half-way, he called suddenly to mind 
the fact that he had ample time to catch the midnight 
mail; and having instructed his servant to meet him at the 
station,' he consigned the sealed envelope to- his breast- 
pocket, and strolled slowly thither. He had no longer any 
will to fight against his love; and he put away all thoughts 
of Gerard from his mind, and was at peace in his Fool*s 
Paradise. 

He reached the Grange next morning, and spoke lightly 
of his call to town as a stupid jest, and stayed out the re- 
mainder of the time, meeting each day with Constance. 
Mr. Jolly*s time of festivity was coming to an end; his 
guests were preparing for flight; and at last the close came, 
and Yal must go back into the world which had now no 
light for him. 

On the last day he was alone with Constance for a few 
minutes. She was at the piano, playing scraps of melody, 
and breaking abruptly away from them, as though her 
mind was somewhat restless. Val, standing near her, 
spoke, as lightly as he could. 

“ So we all fly away to-morrow,** he said, “ owl, jack- 
daw, and bird of paradise.** 

“Yes,** she said, looking round at him with a languid 
smile. “It is a pity. The pleasantest times come to an 
end. The house will be dull for a little time to come.** 

“Yes,** said Yal, “I suppose so.** She went on play- 
ing softly. “Those dancing chips,** he quoted, “ o*er 
whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait.** 

“How quaintly pretty!** she said, looking round again. 
“ Whose is that?** 

“ It is from one of Shakespeare*s sonnets,** he answered. 
He longed to speak the whole of it, but had not courage. 
The mere want of daring to do so little, spurred him, and 
stung him so that in a second he was ready to do all. 
“Constance!** he murmured, and she turned again and 
looked at him. Her face was suddenly pale, and there 


yalWtTkTstkangk 


w 


i 



izT 

was a visible fear in her beautiful eyes. “ I can not go 
away without a word." Her eyes drooped as his gazed 
passionately into them; the blood surged up to her face 
and left it pale again. “ If you loved the man you are 
joledged to marry " — the floodgates once open ever so little, 
farewell restraint — “ I could not speak. How dare I? 
But you do not love him, and it is no dishonor in me that I 
plead my cause. I have loved you from the hour when I 
first saw you. I tried to go away. The telegrams that 
came a fortnight ago were sent at my request, to call me 
to London, away from you. I went; but I could not stay. 
My heart dragged me back again. I can not live without 
you." 

She rose pale and trembling, and stood before him. 
“By what right," she asked, still with lowered eyes, “do 
you speak to me so? Might it not have been more honora- 
ble to have made your first appeal to Gerard — to your 
friend?" 

He turned ghastly pale at that rebuke, and the room 
whirled round with him. He reached out a pair of trem- 
bling hands and seized on the piano. 

“No, no!" she said. “I did not mean to be so cruel. 
Go! Forgive me. Leave me. Yon must never speak 
such words to me again. Let us never meet again, for 
pity's sake." 

He looked at her doggedly, seeing her as if through a 
shining mist. “ You love me," he said, “ and not Gerald." 

At that instant, Reginald's voice was heard below calling 
“ Constance!" With one sweeping gesture, she commanded 
him from the room. 

He passed out at one door; and she, with a motion that 
seemed the mere continuation of her gesture, left by another. 
But as they went each gave a backward glance, and again 
their eyes met. “ Constance!" cried the voice below. She 
waved her hand once more against him, and was gone. He 
passed upward to his own chamber. 

“ She loves me," he murmured. “I shall win her yet!" 


CHAPTER XYI. 

“THIS IS MY FUTURE PARTNER, LADIES." 

The dining-room at Lumby Hall was a place furnished 
for solid comfort's sake and with no regard for show. The 


TPCLTUSTT1.N E ttTKAJ^rnrr 




walls, the ceiling, and the floor were all of oak. Dark 
maroon hangings kept a certain air about the chamber, as 
though to say that eating was not a busy matter here, but 
a thing to be done in shaded peace, and at what leisure the 
diner would. The oak floor, save for an edging some foot 
and a half in width, was deeply carpeted. The pictures on 
the walls were dull with time. The dim gold of their 
heavy frames relieved the somber shades of the oak panel- 
ing, but had no gewgaw quarrel with their age, as any 
modern gilding would have had. There was no new 
electro'd look on the silver stands and candelabra. The 
eyes of ornamental Cupids had grown dark: there were 
streaks of darkness in the Cupid's silver hair; their noses 
had grown blunt with the chamois leather of generations 
of butlers. All things wore a look of comfortable age. 
Sitting here, you were out of all disturbing influence, unless 
you were outside of it in the literal sense of carrying it 
i within you. There is no great comfort in new things. A 
\new chair, stiff and shiny, sets one's teeth on edge with the 
creak of its leather, yet untrained to yield. Your old chair 
lias-found out all your angles, and is ready to adapt itself 
to a stranger's. Old shoes, old coats, old wines, old friends, 
what comfort there is in them ! In the society of an old 
friend, you can lounge as you do in an old jacket; you have 
no fear of taking the gloss off him, or it. There is a sense 
of comfort, of long human proprietorship, which has left 
even it not unmarked with human interest, in old furniture. , 
jSTot as it stares forlornly at you from the dim dustiness of 
half-fictitious years in W ardour Street shop windows; but 
as it stands where it has been wont to stand, in any old 
chamber familiar to a family. The chairs in which genera- 
tions of the same house have sat, the table at which gen- 
ations have dined, the solid square decanters out of which 
great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers poured 
mirth and jollity — what are new things beside them? 

Gerard and his father sat here, well content in the after- 
dinner hour, the old man sipping his glass of port, the 
younger his glass of claret. ♦ 

“ And so," said the senior, balancing the nut-crackers, 
and looking across the table with a humorous air, “you 
won't come up to London?" 

“If you wish it, I will come," answered Gerard. 
“ Otherwise I don't care for it." 


126 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ Oh,” hummed the old boy, not unmelodiously, 
“ ‘ There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young 
dream. 9 99 In his youth he had had a famous tenor voice, 
which, though now a trifle husky, had still something of 
its old mellow flavor left in it. 

Gerard looked up at him, and laughed affectionately. 
“Well, dad,” he said, “why not? You had your day.” 
There was a little blush upon his face, which was not un- 
becoming, going, as it did, with such a friendly candor in 
liis eyes. 

“ Yes,” the old boy answered, for good port disposes the 
heart to sentiment, “I have had my day. I thank God 
for a tranquil afternoon, and the promise of a quiet even- 
ing.” They were both silent for a minute or two, and then 
he said, in his usual tone: “ I'm afraid I must drag you 
away, my lad, but only for a day. I've been talking things 
over with your mother; and since you are going to get mar- 
ried, and can't very well do that on your allowance, I have 
thought of taking you over into the House, and transfer- 
ring to you, say half my share in it. You need never 
meddle with the business. I would rather you didn't 
meddle with it. So long as Garling lasts> at least, 
it couldn't be in better hands. When I am gone, except 
for Milly's share, you will have everything; but I sha'n't 
follow King Lear's pattern even with so good a lad as you 
are. So I shall run up to town to-morrow, have a talk with 
Garling — see exactly how I stand — and then go to Bryan, 
and get him to draw up the necessary papers; and then you 
must beg away for a day, and come up for the completion 
of the business.” Gerard would have thanked him, but he 
went on, “ And now I've had wine enough, and I'm going 
upstairs. Are you coming?” They rose together, and left 
the room arm in arm. “ This is my future part- 
ner, ladies,” said Lumby senior, entering the drawing- 
room. “We must have new blood in the business.” 

Mrs. Lumby rose and kissed her son, a little tremulously. 
They were a most united household, and had great love for 
each other. The coming change had cast a sort of tender 
shadow on them all. Gerard's marriage would bring about 
their first real parting. 

In the morning, Lumby pere, in the highest spirits, 
started for London. It is fine to see a mellow-hearted man 


YALE3STTIKE STKAKGE. 


127 


living over the morning of his days again in the knowledge 
of his son^s felicities; and old Lumby was a pleasant sight. 
Snowy whiskers; beaming British countenance, handsomer 
by far in its well-preserved beginning of age than it had 
ever been in youth; ancient satin Stock, voluminous, with 
shining buckle behind; white high collar, meeting the silver 
of his whiskers; hat broad-brimmed, and not too glossy; 
figure clad in dull broadcloth, not too portly, but square 
and solid — the beau-ideal of a country gentleman. Arrived 
in London, he drove to one of those city hostels, once 
numerous, but disappearing now, if the last of them has 
not already gone, where the solid mahogany tables and 
sideboards looked liquid with the polish of a century; where 
the butler had known the fathers of all but the most 
ancient guest, and remembered the room you slept in when 
you first came up to London; where the table linen was all 
of the finest, the whitest, and the costliest, and in whose 
cellars, port elbow deep in saw-dust slept, as old as 
Waterloo.” Most people like to be considered some- 
body, and the very Boots in this ancient hostel knew the 
House of Lumby and Lumby, and reverenced its head. 
He would have been a mere unit in a crowd at the Langliam, 
and even there the port could have been no better. When, 
after luncheon, he walked down to the offices of the firm, 
the old servitor at the door capped him with a smile; the 
elder clerks bowed gravely; the younger, with a sense of 
awe, bent lower at their figures, and sent their quills across 
the paper with increasing assiduity of aspect; and the old 
gentleman came, in short, like a little monarch of feudal 
times to his own. His heart was glad in his only son, and 
he was humbly grateful that it was in his power to lift him 
above all little worldly anxieties, and to set him in the way 
to happiness. In the fullness of his heart, he stopped to 
sjDeak to the oldest of the clerks, who had known him when 
he was a lad, and had gray whiskers when Ms father had 
first inducted him into the honor of a share in the firm. 

“It is like old times to see you here, sir,” said the hon- 
ored clerk. 

“ Ah!” said Mr. Lumby, “it is like old times to Sphere. 
Where is Garling?” 

“He is out at present, sir,” said the clerk: “we expect 
him to return at once. ” 

“ Mr. Gerard is coming into the firm,” said Mr. Lumby, 


128 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


with genial pride. “ These landmarks in life show us how 
old we are growing — eh, Johnson?” 

“ They do, indeed, si$,” said the ancient clerk, flattered 
to be the first to hear the news. “ I remember your com- 
ing very Well, sir. You were Mr. Gerard then.” 

“ You have spent a pretty good slice of your life here, 
Johnson, eh?” 

“You may say that, sir,” said the old clerk, with a 
tremulous quaver in his old voice. “ Fifty years to-day, 
sir. ” 

“Nonsense!” cried Mr. Lumby. 

“Fifty years to-day!” the old clerk repeated. “ Half a 
century, sir. I came here on my fifteenth birthday, and I 
am sixty-five to-day.” 

“Happy returns!” said the head of the firm, offering his 
hand, which the old man took gratefully. “ Happy re- 
turns! Will you come and dine with me to-night, if you 
have no other engagement?” 

“ I shall be honored, sir,” the old clerk answered. 

We have new-fangled ways now. Perhaps they are 
better than the old; but the affectionate veneration of the 
ancient servitor is rarely now to be seen in these fast-rolling 
days. 

“ Shall we say six o'clock? Very well. We'll have a 
talk over old times, eh? You won't forget?” The idea of 
his forgetting! 

Mr. Lumby went upstairs, and walked into his own 
room, where he rang for the “Times,” and sat down to 
wait for G aiding. It was a square little room, hung on 
three sides with maps, and crowded with one big table and 
two heavy chairs. One side of it was of corrugated glass 
and wooden frame-work, and in this was a sliding door. 
Beyond this thin partition was Garling's room. Mr. 
Lumby read his “ Times,” and waited, with a comfortable 
heart. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“you've got two names, have you?'' thought 

HIRAM. 

Hiram Search had had some reason to think the world 
a hardish patch to hoe, to copy the figurative locution of 
his native land. It had never been easy since he could re- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


129 


member, and of late years it had been full of struggles, 
which were mostly failures, to make both ends meet. But 
it is not until a man has tasted happiness that he can ap- 
preciate the full flavor of misery. Happily, the reverse 
-also holds good, and a man can find the finer flavors of 
happiness when misery has cleansed his palate. For a little 
space, Hiram, like his betters, had been happy, and now 
came trouble, all the more troublous, as it always has been, 
for coming on smooth times. The daily crust must some- 
how be earned, and Hiram was away early and home late, 
though Mary sat crying at home, awaiting the funeral of 
her mother. Her father redeemed his promise, and took 
the funeral charges on himself. It was a poor and simple 
show, and no mourner followed the plain coffin. Garling 
paid for it, such as it was, and gave Mary a five-pound 
note. 

“ You will hold yourself in readiness for me," he said; 
** and I shall come for you in a day or two. I must make 
arrangements to receive you. " He gave her an arctic kiss, 
and went his way; and she, feeling quite desolate, strayed 
about the empty house, and longed for Hiram's protecting 
presence. It was midnight when he came. 

“We can't go on in this way, my darlin'," he told her. 
“ You must give me the right to protect you. 'Tain't 
provident, I know; but there air some situations when it's 
wise to be improvident, an' this is one of 'em. We shall 
have to be careful an' savin'; but we have both had prac- 
tice at that; an' I fancy I can allays find us in a roof an' 
vittles." 

“Not yet," she pleaded tearfully; “1 couldn't marry so 
soon after mother's death." 

“We must find you cheerful lodgin's," said Hiram; “ an' 
I must begin to turn round pretty sharp, an' look for some 
other kind o' labor, an' when I've got it, we must be mar- 
ried as soon as possible. 'T ain't to be thought on, as I 
should leave you alone in the world a minute longer'n I 
can help." 

“ But Hiram," she said timidly, clinging to him — “ my 
father?" 

“ Wall," said Hiram, looking on a sudden as hard and 
as keen as a razor, “ what about him?" 

“ He is coming to take me away," she answered. 

“ Is he?" said Hiram. “ Air you goin' with him? No, 


130 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


my blossom. I don't want to speak any harm of him; but 
he's got no claim over you or your doin's — none. His noo- 
born yearnin's '11 ha' to wait, I fancy. He choked 'em 
down, it seems, for nigh on a score o' years, an' now he 
can jest keep on chokin' 'em for my convenience." 

“ He is coming to take me away with him," she said. 

Hiram treated this lightly. “ Don't go with him," he 
answered, and thought that question settled. Then he 
kissed her tenderly, and went up to bed, but not to sleep. 
How to make a living? Such a living as would leave some 
margin over bare necessity; something, not luxury, but 
comfort, for his dear little girl. He could make nothing of 
the problem yet, and the schemes he devised had all some 
flaw in them. 

The afternoon of the next day, being Saturday, brought 
Garling back again. “ I am here," he said, “to 'take 
you home." She shrunk from him. “Are you ready?" 

“ No," she answered, in fear of him. 

He sat down, saying coldly, with an air of reproof, that 
he would wait until she had finished her preparations. 

“ But," she said, scarcely knowing how she found cour- 
age enough to say it, “I am not going." 

“You are in error," he answered, dryly. “Get ready 
at once, if you please." 

With a sort of desperation, such as a mouse might feel as 
if in extremity it found the heart to face a terrier, she said 
again: “ I am not going. I have promised not to go." 

“You have promised? Whom have you promised?"’ 
he asked, looking darkly at her from beneath his brows. 

“ I have promised not to go," she repeated with hysteric 
courage. 

“Aou are of course aware," he said, coldly, “that I, 
as your father, have complete control over you until you 
come of age. You are not yet twenty, and my control will 
continue for at least fifteen months. I promised your 
mother that I would exercise it, and I will. " 

“ Why did you leave us?" she panted. “Why should I 
trust you to be good to me? I will not go. " 

“ Your mother," he responded, coldly as ever, “ could 
have told you why I left you. I am a man, and can not 
speak scandal of the dead." 

“ You speak scandal," she panted back again, “in say- 
ing that you can not speak it. I won't believe it — I don't 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 131 

believe it. My mother was a good woman, and you left 
her — you left her cruelly. I will not go with you.” 

He had cared little enough to take her; but scoundrel as 
he was, he had not had the heart to refuse her mother^ 
prayer; and though he had striven to beat that feeling 
down, he had it in his mind that there was some terror in 
wait for him if he should break his promise. But though he 
came reluctantly enough, the girks opposition decided him 
as firmly as though her society were a necessity of life to 
him. Her reiterated refusal spurred his halting purpose. 
It was years since anybody had disputed an order of his, 
and the denial stirred his blood pleasantly. 

“ It is not a matter,” he said calmly, “ in which you can 
exercise a choice. I order, and you must obey. ” He kept 
his eyes upon her until hers sunk before them. He knew 
the virtue of that stony glance of old. It had helped to 
break her mothers spirit, and to make her the mere creat- 
ure of his will. “ I wish to treat you kindly,” he went on, 
“but I shall insist upon obedience, instant and complete. 
My method is decisive in all matters. I give you ten min- 
utes in which to make ready. If you are not ready in that 
time, you will go as you are. ” 

“I will not go,” she protested wildly. 

“ You do not understand. Permit me to explain. I 
have a legal right over you. The first policeman in the 
street will see you into my cab at my order. ” 

What was she to do? She knew no better. “What 
have I ever done to you,” she cried. “ I have lived by my 
own earnings, and I can do so still. You were cruel to my 
mother, and you broke her heart, and now — k 

“And now,” he said, “time flies. Obey me. Not a 
word, at your peril.” 

Cowed by the brutal and contemptuous tone, and not 
able to guess how far his rights might stretch, or how far 
he would carry them, she left the room, and, blinded with 
tears, mounted the staircase. Suddenly, as she stood dis- 
consolate in her chamber, shaken with her own weeping, 
she clasped her hands at a thought, and, falling on her 
knees, drew, from a shabby papered box which held all her 
belongings, a sheet of pajier and a pencil. “Dear 
Hiram,” she wrote, “My father is here. I am obliged to 
go. Pray, oh, pray find me. Live here, and I will send 
you my address; but he will watch me. Mary.” 


132 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


She crept on tiptoe to Hiram’s room, and pinned the 
paper to his pillow, and then crept back again. Ah, there 
was hope! Hiram was clever, and brave, and strong. He 
would find her, and deliver her. She could surely manage 
to convey to him the news of her whereabouts; and he 
would find her, though the cruel father buried her under- 
ground. She knew nothing of the world; but why was 
she a woman, but to know that it would be wisest now to 
play at resignation? She packed with trembling fingers, in 
haste, as though every hurried motion brought Hiram and 
her rescue nearer. When she descended, her father sat 
with his watch in his hand. 

“You are ready? Where is your luggage?” She told 
him; and he called in the driver of the cab which stood 
before the door and ordered him to bring it down. “ Come,” 
he said to his daughter, with cold discourtesy; “ get in first. ” 
She passed the threshold; and he, having dropped the hasp 
which held back the main lock, followed, and they were 
driven away. 

When Hiram returned that night at his usual hour, the 
door was locked against him. But he, being a man of ex- 
pedients, and unwilling to disturb Mary, dropped over into 
the area, and entered by the kitchen door, supposing that 
the hasp had fallen by accident. There was nothing to 
warn him of his sweetheart’s disappearance, except that his 
candle was not in its usual place upon its ledge in the nar- 
row hall; but he disregarded that, and crept silently up- 
stairs. He struck a light in his own room, and glancing 
round it, saw the paper on his pillow. By the flame of the 
match, he read “ Hear Hiram,” and the name by which the 
note was signed. Before he could master a word beyond 
this, his frail light went out. He had no other; and in 
his anxiety to read the missive he crept quietly down-stairs, 
not guessing even yet that he was alone in the house, and 
that the jewel which made it like a casket to his mind, had 
been stolen away. The night was dusty, and the wind in 
sudden bursts moaned up and down the streets like a house- 
less wanderer, uncertain where to go. He could find no 
light in the kitchen; but remembering how he had entered ., 
and hearing how the wind shook the thin latch, he shot the 
bolt; and mounting the stairs as noiselessly as a ghost, he 
opened the front door, and leaving it ajar* went on tiptoe 
to the nearest street lamp, and there read the letter. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


133 


Standing amazed and uncertain, with a chill sense of dis- 
may upon him, he heard a sudden clap, which sounded like 
the explosion of a small cannon, and the wind came hurry- 
ing by with a hoarse rejoicing murmur. He darted back 
to the door, and found it closed. The house was locked 
against him. 

This small disaster affected him curiously. It was like 
a bad omen; and he stood before the closed and deserted 
house like one whom the whole world has cast out. Shak- 
ing off his dejection, he walked, slowly at first, but more 
and more briskly as his thoughts shaped themselves and 
the mental way grew clear before him, to a coffee-house he 
knew; and paying his sixpence for a bed, retired, and in 
spite of trouble and anxiety, slept fairly. He was astir be- 
times in the morning; and having secured a half-sheet of 
note-paper and a few wafers, he wrote, “ Letters next door 
at No. 97,” and walking to the house, fastened that legend 
over the letter-slip. Then came the routine of the day. 
Every time the omnibus passed the house in Fleet Street in 
which were situated the chambers of that Mr. Martial to 
whom Hiram had once carried a message, the conductor 
mounted to the roof of his vehicle and stood there, scan- 
ning the windows eagerly. That afternoon — so simple 
seemed the knot which Hiram had to untie — he saw Mary,, 
caught her glance, and exchanged a signal with her. But 
he could not leave his post; and though he passed the house 
again twice before the daylight faded, he saw her no more. 
On the morrow he secured a substitute to perform his 
duties, but was informed by a superior official that if this 
kind of thing went on he would be dismissed. 

“ If that’s so,” said Hiram, “1 shall be sorry; but it is 
as may be. ” It was but a poor way of earning a living, 
after all, and he was every day more anxious to break from 
it. Perhaps if he could once be bold enough to leave it, he 
would pitch upon something better. He rode up to the 
house, dropped from tli£ omnibus, and rang the bell. 
After some delay, Garling himself responded to the sum- 
mons. He was dressed for the streets; and after one keen 
glance at Hiram, he came out, closed the door behind him, 
and walked eastward, as calmly as though his visitor had 
been invisible. Hiram followed; and at the touch of a 
finger on his shoulder, Garling stopped and faced about. 

“ What do you want?” he demanded. 


134 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ A word with you,” said Hiram in reply. 

“ It was you,” thought G aiding in his secret mind, “ to 
whom she gave the promise not to go. ” But he only said 
aloud: “ Speak your word;” and turned upon his heel 
again, leaving Hiram to follow. If he hoped to shake off 
the intruder, he was mistaken; the unwelcome hand was 
v again upon his shoulder, so firmly this time as to bring 
, him to a stand-still. 

“ I want to see Miss Martial,” said Hiram. 

“Remove your hand, sir,” returned Garling coldly. 
Hiram for sole answer moved him a little to and fro, as 
though to hint his own preparedness to shake a favorable 
answer out of him. “Officer!” said Garling. A police- 
man paused in passing. “This person annoys me.” It 
was so icily done, with a self-possession so perfect, that for 
a second Hiram was confounded, and he permitted Garling 
to withdraw himself and walk on. His perplexity lasted 
for a second only, and he followed at an easy pace, satis- 
fied for the present to allow the cashier a start of ten or a 
dozen yards. Garling, looking not to right or left, want 
calmly on, with his hands clasped behind him, as his habit 
was, and Hiram followed him. Garling, with his wry for- 
bidding smile bent downward, surrendered his visitor as 
vanquished; and betook himself to thoughts of other things. 

“ Where you go, I go,” said Hiram quietly within him- 
self. “Fll have somethin* out of you afore Fve done, as 
sure as water's wet. ” Treading in and out among the pas- 
sengers, he pursued the figure in front, and never took his 
eyes from it. Garling moved aside for nobody, but w r alked 
slowly, as though in green meadows, with not a soul in 
view, and everybody made way for him — which is the tri- 
umph of your impassive and unyielding men. Along 
Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, through St. Paul's Church- 
_ yard, Hiram followed, and by this time treading pretty 
close on Garling's heels, pursued him into quiet Gresham 
Street. ^ • , ; V 

“ Mr. Garling,” said a man in passing. 

“ Yes,” said Garling, walking on. 

The man turned and w r alked with him. “ The * Emer- 
ald Isle * sails this evening; but the whole consignment can 
not be completed until to-morrow. Shall w r e send part by 
the ‘ Emerald Isle/ or keep it all for the 6 Ohio/ which 
sails on Wednesday?” 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


13 5 


“Keep it # for Wednesday,” answered Garling, without 
looking round or pausing in his walk. It was wonderful 
how for twenty years this chill abstracted manner had kept 
everybody about the House of Lumby and Lumby in awe 
of him. 

“ You've got two names, have you?” thought Hiram. 
“ That's a pull to begin with.” The clerk who had ad- 
dressed Garling had the air and manner of a gentleman, 
and the profound respect of his approach implied a high 
authority in the man he spoke to. At the wide door of the; 
offices, the porter saluted Garling and received no respqnse^ 
On each side of the entrance was a small brass plate bear- 
ing the simple inscription, “ Lumby and Lumby.” The 
name struck a clear note in HiranTs memory. It was a 
man bearing that name who had lifted him out of the 
Slough of Despond less than half a year ago. He fol- 
lowed Garling, and no man spoke to him. The cashier 
had ceased to think of him; and if he noted the footsteps 
behind him at all, he took them for those of an employe 
of the House. And Hiram followed Garling so calmly, 
the clerks supposed that Garling knew of him, and had 
brought him to the office. Upstairs and along the cor- 
ridor, and then through a little door went the cashier; and 
Hiram pursued leisurely. At the sound of HiranTs enter- 
ing footsteps, Garling turned. A flash of surprise passed 
over his face and left it calm again. He rang the bell; and 
a clerk came in response to it. 

“Bring a policeman,” said the cashier calmly. 

The clerk, with a glance at Hiram, retired. 

“ I am not alarmed,” said Hiram quietly; “ an 5 now we 
air here alone, we can have it out together quiet and com- 
fortable; can't we, mister? Very well, then. Here's the 
case as it stands. Your cards air these: You've got the 
little gell in your own hands, an' you're her father. My 
cards air: That you married in a false name; that you let 
the wife of your bosom starve to death if it hadn't been for 
the charity o' strangers; an' that you air open to a charge 
of abduction. Honest folk don't kerry aliases, Mr. Garling- 
Martial or Martial-Garling, or what your name is. While 
you're calling for a policeman, you'd best give a wholesale 
order, an' have enough to take the pair of us. I charge 
you with abduction. If you have a right to the little gell. 


136 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


you have to prove it. You can establish your claim, mis- 
ter, by admitting an illegal marriage." 

This was a bold shot; fcut it hit the very white of HiranTs 
expectations. A gray hue crept cloudily over the natural 
colors of Garling's face, and he fixed a deadly glance on 
Hiram. 

“ Look as ugly as you can, mister," said the unwelcome 
visitor, calmly. “ Nature's hand has been bountiful in that 
direction. Walk in, officer." 

“Wait down-stairs," said Garling to the policeman 
standing in the door-wav. “What do you want of me, 
when all is said?" he asked of Hiram. 

“ I want my plighted wife. Miss Mary Martial, out of 
your wicked clutches," he responded. 

“If I refuse to surrender her?" asked Garling. 

“ Then I go to the first police court," returned Hiram, 
** an' charge you with abduction by force." 

“What proof have you that she came unwillingly?" 

“ A letter in her own handwriting." 

“Will you show me that letter?" 

“Yes," said Hiram; “I will hold it up afore you. But 
if you offer to lay a hand on it, I shall prob'ly twist your 
wicked head off. " He held up the note, and Garling read it. 

“ What position have you to maintain a wife?" he asked. 

“ That is not the point," said Hiram, folding up the let- 
ter. “ Fve got the whip-hand, Mr. Martial, an' I'm goin' to 
exercise my power, Mr, Garling. Get up. You don't want 
Lumby an' Lumby to know your villainies, you lioary-headed 
reprobate." Another shaft discharged at half hap-hazard; 
but it entered Garling's heart, and Hiram saw it, impassive 
as he was to look at. “ High in the confidence of a re- 
spectable British house, 'taint wholesome to be foolin' round, 
marryin' onder false names, and' starvin' wives, an' ab- 
ductin' gells!" 

How much, thought Garling, did the man know? How 
much guess-work? He was too dangerous to be trifled 
with. “ Come to the point," said Garling. “ What do 
y T ou want to do?" 

“ I want you to come now, without a minute's loss, an' 
surrender Miss Mary Martial to my care. An' if you delay 
one minute by the clock, I bring my charge. " 

“ Come with me," said Garling, rising; and they left the 
room together. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


137 


“What horrible mystery is here?” said the head of the 
great firm, sitting white and wonder-stricken in the next 
apartment. Every word had reached him. “ Garling 
under an alias. Garling!” Incredible! “Married? Left 
his wife to starve?” Incredible again. And true, for he 
himself admitted it. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“UNDERHAND?” 

The ancient Johnson, servitor of the great House for 
half a century, presented himself in due time at the old- 
fashioned city hostel and asked for Mr. Lumby. Mr. 
Lumby had not yet arrived, and the old clerk sat down in 
his private room to wait. There was a mingling of early 
twilight with gaslight in the street, and the room itself 
was somber with much old mahogany. As he waited, the 
gaslights in the street grew brighter, and the shadows in 
the room grew deeper. The silence and the shadows and 
the waiting became in the course of time quite unendurable, 
and the clerk rang for lights. 

“ Did Mr. Lumby name any time for returning?” ho 
asked. 

“ No, sir; not particular,” said the waiter. “Leastways, 
I think not. Ill inquire.” The waiter drew the blinds, 
stirred the fire, and having lingered a little, left the room 
with that air of foiled expectation peculiar to his tribe. 
Coming again in the course of a few minutes, he said that 
Mr. Lumby had left no word behind him as to the hour at 
which he would return. 

“That is curious,” said the old clerk, with a sort of 
tremulous disappointed dignity. “He asked me to dine 
with him at six this evening.” 

“ Singular,” said the waiter, with raised eyebrows; “ very 
singular. Shall I bring you anythin* while you wait, sir? 
A glass of sherry and a biscuit now?** suggested the waiter, 
with an almost filial interest. 

“ Yes,” said Johnson, and sat there for another hour, 
crumbling his biscuit, and sipping, very, very slowdy, at 
his sherry. Steps came and went upon the stairs, bells 
rang, voices ordered and voices answered, while Johnson 
sat wondering and waiting. A step came up the stairs. 


138 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


and the clerk, with a sort of weary anger, inwardly de- 
clared that he knew it would go by. But this time it came 
straight to the room, and Mr. Lumby entered. The old 
clerk rose to greet him; but the head of the great House, 
v r ho was a much bigger man than ancient Johnson, laid 
both hands upon his shoulders and half forced him into his 
seat again. 

“ I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Johnson,” he 
said. “ I am afraid I have spoiled your dinner. But no 
man is altogether master of his time, and I have been de- 
tained. Let us see what they can do for us. Better late 
than never, eh, Johnson?” 

“ Better late than never, sir,” returned the old clerk. 
“ Better very late,Mndeed, sir, than not at all.” 

“ Ay,” said the head of the firm; “better very late in- 
deed, than not at all.” There was something in his tone 
which seemed to give the remark some greater signifi- 
cance than the occasion called for; and when the old clerk 
looked at his employer, he saw a shadow resting on his 
face, which he had never seen before. “ Better very late 
indeed, than not at all.” Lumby's voice trailed off, and 
the shadow deepened on his face. For a minute he stood 
absorbed in his own thoughts; and then, with a little shak- 
ing of the head, he roused himself, rang the bell, and en- 
tered into consultation with the waiter and the guest. Soup, 
sherry, fish, a bird, a cutlet, champagne, port. “ Yessir,” 
“ yessir,” as the items were told off; and the waiter was 
gone to put the orders into execution. Lean Johnson, an- 
cient servitor, so felt his visage glow with satisfaction at 
the arrangements, that he blew his nose in a very big 
bandana to hide himself, and emerging from his silken ref- 
uge, betrayed no n\ore than a twinkling eye might tell. 

“ And Mr. Gerard is coming into the House, sir?” said 
the clerk. 

His employer's eyes were fixed upon the fire with a far- 
away look. 

“ Yes,” he said, recalling himself, and shifting in his 
chair, like one who lets fall an invisible burden; “Mr. 
Gerard is coming into the House. He is going to be mar- 
ried, Johnson. I suppose you are a grandfather long ago?” 

“No, sir,” said the ancient servitor, gravely; “I am a 
single man.” 

“You should be quite an irreclaimable bachelor by 


/ 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 13$ 

now?” said Mr. Lumby, with a laugh. “ Eh, Johnson? 
Quite the bachelor!” 

“ Why, yes, sir,” returned Johnson. “ There are two 
or three of us in the House. Neale is almost on the shelf 
by now.” 

“Ah,” said Lumby, gayly, “Neale is sixty, I should 
say.” 

“ Fifty-eight, sir,” answered the old clerk. “ Then 
there's Barnes. Barnes is over fifty, young as he looks. 
And Mr. Garling, he's another of the hopeless cases. Eh, 
sir?” 

There was a change in the countenance of the great man j 
and the shadow the clerk had noted there, came back 
again. “You would scarcely fancy Girling a marrying 
man,” he answered. 

“Why, no, sir,” said Johnson. “Scarcely. Mr. Gar- 
ling is all for business. A long head, sir. I hope you'll 
forgive the liberty I take, but I've always thought the House 
was fortunate in Mr. Garling, sir. ” 

“ Ye-es,” said the head of the firm, lingering on the 
word, not doubtfully, but as if his thoughts dwelt on some- 
thing else. “ Is Garling popular?” he asked suddenly. 

“ Well, in a way, sir,” said the old clerk. “ He is looked 
up to. I should say he is as much looked up to as the 
Bank. People identify him with the House, sir. In an- 
other sense, we should hardly call him popular, perhaps. A 
very reserved man, sir, is Mr. Garling; not exactly haughty* 
but reserved.” 

“And quite a bachelor, eh, Johnson?” 

“Oh, yes, sir, quite a bachelor,” answered Johnson. 
“ Almost as inveterate a bachelor as I am. He and Neale 
and Barnes and I are all in the same bag, I fancy, sir. We 
might make up a quartet party to sing, ‘ To keep single I 
contrive' — we four, sir.” The old clerk laughed and rub- 
bed his hands, half at his jest and half at the appearance 
of the waiter, who came in to lay the cloth; which being- 
done, another waiter came in with a tureen, and another 
with a decanter of sherry, and a fourth with nothing but a 
napkin and an air of authoritative supervision. 

“ You need not wait," said Mr. Lumby; and the quartet 
withdrew itself — with lingering touches of decanter and 
table-cloth and salt-spoons — as though only half resigned 


140 


YALEJsTIXE straetge. 


to leave a picture unfinished. “ There are not many busi- 
ness men like Garling, eh, Johnson?” 

“ Well, sir,” said Johnson, as if he tasted G arling with 
his soup, and after critical observation approved of him, 
“ we think him quite unequaled. Business seems to be his 
very life, sir. Mr. Garling is not a man of whom I should 
be inclined to speak as a reveler, in any direction, but that's 
the only word that I. can find. He seems to revel in busi- 
ness.” It was evident that Johnson regarded the cashier 
with an unstinted veneration. With the first glass of cham- 
pagne, the old clerk drank long life and happiness to Mr. 
Gerard; but he went back to Garling, and as the good 
viands and the cheerful wine warmed his elderly heart, he 
chanted his praises higher. “ He doesn't work like a serv- 
ant, sir, but like a master. You might think, to see how 
he works, that every business combination was intended to 
swell his own account at the Bank. But then, it's a de- 
light to him, and that's one proof of his financial genius!” 

If the ancient clerk had looked at his employer then, he 
might have seen the shadow deepen on his face; deepen, 
deepen, a shadow of mistrust and fear. The shadow of 
the cashier's ugly secret was on his heart, and fell outward 
on his face. Garling under an alias? Garling married? 
Garling starving his wife? Incredible. And true. 

“Yes,” he made answer after awhile, “he has always 
seemed absorbed in business — too much absorbed, perhaps, 
to be quite wholesome.” 

“ Not a holiday for nine years, sir,” said the old clerk. 
“It's wonderful, wonderful.” The head of the firm sat 
silent, sipping at his wine. “ And the 'business seems to 
absorb him altogether. Quite a lonely man. ” 

Lumby stirred at that. “ No friends?” 

“ Since young Martial died, more than twenty years ago, 
not one intimate friend, I believe, sir. Martial was man- 
aging clerk to Messrs. Beg, Batter, and Bagg, in Chancery 
Lane, sir, an eminent legal firm. A most able and prom- 
ising young man. His death was a great blow to Garling, 
and I believe he has never formed a friendship since.” 

“ Perhaps that speaks well for him, Johnson?” said Mr. 
Lumby in a questioning voice. 

“ I should say so, sir,” the clerk responded — “decidedly, 
I should say so. Those stern and silent natures, sir, feel 
deeply.” Elderly Johnson, with his own ancient heart 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


141 


softened and warmed within him, was prepared to take 
almost a sentimental view of Garling's loneliness. The 
port was old, like Johnson's self, and all the mellow shine 
of the suns that glowed upon its parent grape lay snugly 
beaming in his bosom. Kindly Johnson, thus happy and 
thus honored, in private talk with the head of the great 
house, and sitting with his venerable legs beneath the same 
mahogany with him — why, at such an hour should he not 
think well of all men, and best of all of the captain of his 
troop — the troop lie had served in now for half a century? 

The cloud of distrust lifted and lightened ever so little 
in Lumby's mind — and fell again. The wife might have 
brought desertion on herself, might have deserved it all, 
and more. But then — the alias, the alias! The cloud 
thickened and fell lower yet. The talk strayed to other 
themes, and Lumby strove to take his part in it, and bore 
himself well enough to make Johnson believe him the most 
affable of men. And when at last the elderly clerk had 
gone with an envelope in his breast-pocket, sealed as . yet 
and of unknown contents, the head of the House walked 
the apartment with troubled steps and bent head. The 
dialogue he had overheard between Garling and his un- 
known visitor troubled him terribly. He had trusted 
Garling so comjDletely, that no doubt of his probity had 
ever lifted its head. He had respected him so profoundly, 
that the revelation of that afternoon had come upon him 
as a thing unbelievable. And being once shaken in liis 
belief in the man, the business idol he had set up all these 
years in his own mind began to totter. Garling might still 
be honest in money matters, but there was more than room 
for doubt. Perhaps— so Mr. Lumby thought — his own 
laxness might have tempted the man, and being such a 
man as he now knew him to be, the chances of his fall 
from honesty seemed great. It still lacked an hour of 
midnight when Mr. Lumby rang the bell. 

“ I shall he out late," he said to the waiter. “ Let a fire be 
laid in my bedroom, so that I can light it on my return, 
and leave a small decanter of brandy there for me. ” 

The waiter bowed; and Mr. Lumby, assuming his hat 
and great-coat, left the hotel and walked resolutely toward 
his offices. Once he stopped dead short in the street, and 
stood for half a minute. “ Underhand?" he murmured, 
as if questioning himself. “I can not help it. I must 


142 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


know. He walked on again sturdily, and readied liis goal. 
He tried his key upon the door. The latch turned easily; 
but the door was bolted and barred within. He rang the 
bell; and after a long pause he heard the sound of foot- 
steps. 

“ Who's there?” asked the voice of the watchman who 
slept upon the premises. A little trap-door was pushed 
open, and the voice added: “Let me have a look at you.” 
The light of a bull's-eye lantern fell through the space left 
by the trap-door full upon Mr. Lumby's face; and in a 
changed tone the watchman cried: “Wait one minute, sir. 
I beg your pardon. ” Lock and bolt went creaking back, 
and the door opened. “ I never dreamt as it was you, sir,” 
said the man. 

“ Lock the door again, and light me upstairs,” returned 
the head of the firm. 

The man obeyed, and in the little blot of light which 
dwelt about his feet, Mr. Lumby marched stolidly on 
through the darkness. “Light the gas.” The man 
obeyed again. “ I shall be here for some hours, perhaps 
all night. I have important business to do. I may be 
here to-morrow night, and perhaps again on Wednesday; 
but my being here is not to be spoken of. You under- 
stand?” 

“ Perfectly, sir,” the man responded. 

“ Very good. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, sir;” and the man was gone, his footsteps 
sounding lonely on corridor and staircase. 

“ Now, Garling,” muttered Mr. Lumby, as he closed 
and locked the door, “let us see if you play : fair.” He 
pushed aside the sliding-panel of corrugated glass between 
the cashier's room and liis own, and entered. On one side 
of this apartment, raised but one inch from the floor, stood 
a row of enormous ledgers, dating back many years. A 
broad-shouldered solid phalanx, they stood so tightly 
wedged together that it seemed if they had been each a 
leaf thicker, it would have been impossible to squeeze them 
into the place they occupied. Each bore upon its back in 
gilt figures the date of the year whose entries it held, the 
gilding being very dull and faded in the earliest volume, 
and mounting by slow stages through succeeding volumes 
to the fresh glitter of last year. Mr. Lumby seized that 
which dealt with the first year of Garling's stewardship 


'VALENTINE STRANGE. 


143 


jand dragged it from its place. It cost some effort to do 
this, and before he had laid the ponderous volume on the 
table in his own room, his brow was moist. He took off 
his hat and overcoat, wiped his forehead, and sat down 
with the book before him. Then casting the great boards 
open, he sat awhile with knitted brows thinking. Looking 
through the space where the sliding-panel had been, his 
eyes lighted upon a slender volume standing upon a shelf 
above the others, and rising, he crossed the room and 
returned with it. From the pages of the great ledger 
distilled a musty fungous odor like the smell of a long- 
closed vault, or the earthy scent of damp rot in a deserted 
chamber. There was something depressing in this odor; 
but he shook the feeling away, and set resolutely to 
work. He had wielded in his own hand the destinies of 
the great House, and in his day he had been a giant 
among accountants. The faculty was somewhat rusty 
with long disuse, as even the finest faculties are apt to 
grow, and he found himself at first less swift and certain 
than of old. But, as he labored, he felt the power 
growing anew within him; and in an hour’s time he was 
sweeping over the serried columns at a pace which to most 
men would have made accuracy impossible. The night 
sped by; and he still sat there with knitted brows, pouring 
over the leaves. The dawn was gray, and the gaS-light 
had grown sickly, when he laid a finger with a sudden 
gesture as of detection, upon one set of figures at the bot- 
tom of a page. His face had been growing more and 
more anxious for an hour, and now it was keen and hard 
on a sudden, as though triumph for the moment out- 
weighed the sense of fear. 

“Clumsy, after all,” he muttered — “clumsy after all. 
The old plan. Juggling cross-entries to and fro, as though 
that could fog anybody but a fool.” Looking up he saw 
how light the air had grown; and consulting his watch, 
he found that it had run down at a few minutes after six 
o’clock. “ It may be half past seven by now,” he said, 
under his breath. “ I must be away at once. ” By instinct, 
he moved silently, in the silent house; and having thrust 
the great ledger back again into its place, and laid dowui 
the slender volume exactly as he found it, he closed the 
panel, and looked about him to see if there were anything 
which bore an altered aspect. The gas brackets had not 


144 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


been so drawn out when he came, and he replaced them. 
He unlocked the door, withdrew the key, locked it on the 
outer side, and in the dim light felt his way along the corridor 
and down the stairs. The watchman had opened the large 
doors, and w r as smoking a morning pipe outside. The 
streets were almost in clear daylight, dimly as the dawn 
had seemed to peep through the office windows. 

“Good-morning, sir,” said the watchman, touching his 
hat. 

“ Good-morning,” returned Mr. Lumby; and jiausing, 
laid a warning finger on the watchman's breast: “Not 
a word of my having been here — to anybody. I shall be 
down again to-night at nine. ” 

“Very good, sir,” answered the man respectfully; and 
his employer, walking sturdily, turned the corner and was 
gone from sight. 

“Theer's somebody up to something,” thought the 
watchman, as he resumed his pipe; “ and the governor's 
a-findingof 'em out. That's evident. You've got .a pretty 
tidy berth here, Joseph,” apostrophizing himself, “and 
you know when you're well ^off, don't you? Very well, 
then, don't let us hear none o' your chin-music. Of all 
the disastrous things as is, onregulated chin-music is the 
wust. 9 ‘Not a word,' says the governor, ‘not to nobody/ 
Very well, then, Joseph, ‘ not a word' it is!” 

Mr. Lumby walked onward sturdily, bound for his hotel. 
There was a somewhat dazed and unreal sense upon him, 
in the first place, born probably of his having been up all 
night; and he was not yet nearly so much moved by his 
discovery as it seemed probable to himself that he would 
be if he made it. He had his doubts at first as to the 
meaning of the discovery. At the beginning of his day of 
trust, G arling had been deliberately false; but had the 
falsehood gone on? or was restitution made, and had he 
walked honestly since? That question remained still to be 
decided, but with so large a presumption on the wrong 
side of it as amounted almost to a moral certainty. What 
motive could the man have had? What reason in such a 
case to search for motives? Yet Garling had always, so 
far as his chief employer knew, lived plainly — more plainly 
than necessity demanded; and indeed passed as a saving 
man, with a tolerable balance at the bank. So much had 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


145 


been said of him currently many years ago. Surely he 
was too long-headed and keen to gamble. Where could 
the temptation come from with such a man? In what 
quarter was he likely to be assailable? It was against Mr. 
Lumby’s experience that a man at once saving by nature 
and prosperous by circumstances should become a swindler.. 
It was not only against experience, but in the very teeth 
of reason. And now — how much was likely to be gone? 
and how much was likely to be recovered ? 

All this was futile guess-work for the present; but the 
business maits heart quaked at the bare thought that 
enough might be gone to shake the credit of the House. 
If that were so, he could never forgive himself. For it was 
he to whom the concerns of the House had been left by his 
father, and if they had been fatally betrayed, it was he who 
was to blame. Generation after generation of Lumbys* 
father and son for a hundred and thirty years, had 
carried on the House with ever-growing wealth and credit; 
and if, in his day, it should sink dishonorably, it would be 
more than he could bear. Now he began to wake to the 
possible dread of the discovery he had made. But he put 
it from him. No man could have conceived and carried 
on without detection a fraud so vast; and yet he had 
trusted Garling so implicitly that he had left him the 
power to gather everything into his own hands, if Jie had 
the will to do it, and, disappearing suddenly, to leave the 
concerns of the firm a shapeless wreck and ruin. Was 
Garling bold and vile enough for such a deed? Who knew? 
Was he able enough to do it, if he chose to be a villain? 
Of that Lumby had no doubt. And there grew up before 
him the vision of a systematic fraud so carefully planned 
and so thoroughly executed, that he quailed to think of it. 
But as this dread seemed to grow more and more possible 
to his mind, the old man’s stout heart rose to meet it. 
Perhaps it was a petty matter, after all — a question of a few 
hundreds, or, at the utmost, a few thousands; but if it 
were the deep-laid scheme he feared, he would hoist the 
wicked engineer with his own petard. He hungered for 
the night to come, that he might be back unknown at the 
books again, to trace the swindle upward from its birth; 
and then, fully armed with knowledge, turn upon the man 
who had planned against his honor and betrayed his trust* 
and crush him with a word. 


146 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


The entrance of Mr. Lumby to the hotel was noticed 
with befitting wonder by the Boots at the amazing hour of 
eight a.m. He had walked the streets for more than half 
an hour, to clear his brain, which was still in turmoil as he 
entered, and mounted to his bedroom. “ It may take a 
week — a month — to go through the books and learn every- 
thing.” So he mused. “Can I afford to wait so long? 
Will it not be safest to have him watched? or will he be so 
keen that a watch will set him off? Shall I take anybody 
into confidence, or track him by myself? Why, if I can 
do it alone, should I publish my own laxity? I doi/t want 
to be laughed at or pitied by business men in London. 
* Poor old Lumby, smart man once, gone past his time/ 
No, no. None of that for me. The scoundrel, trusted as 
he has been ! The fool I was to trust him ! Trust no man, 
no man! The villain! I made him, made him! took him 
from the gutter almost, and made him a figure in the City 
- — a man of mark. Black ingratitude. The heartless 
scoundrel! Come — what have I proved against him yet 
to be in such a fever? More than enough, more than 
enough. Oh, the scoundrel — to take him by the elbow 
when I know all; to take him lightly in a friendly way — 
< Garland, the favor of a friendly word with you/ I think 
I see him. ‘ Oblige me by looking at this paper — a calcula- 
tion for the past nine years, showing the sums of which you 
have swindled the firm of Lumby and Lumby/ Is that 
worth doing? Is that worth waiting for and creeping to 
through nights of watching? Come, come! I may find 
that he has been honest since that first year; some pressure 
may have been upon him. Pressure! He knew well 
enough that in any extremity he might come to me. ” 

He maddened himself thus, walking up and down his 
room for a long time, but by and by settled into a slow 
rage of hate and anger infinitely more deadly, and more 
terrible to endure. In this mood he sat down to think, 
and found thought beyond him. There was no room in 
his mind for anything but that slow rage, unless it were an 
undefined fear of what the rage might lead to; for he felt 
almost murderous, and some dread of his own passion be- 
gan to take hold upon him. He had always thought him- 
self a kindly and a merciful man, and in truth he had been 
so; but he had never had cause to hate or to be greatly 
angry until now. The two things that hurt him most 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


14 ? 


were his own imbecility of confidence in the man — for so 
he called it — and the fact that he himself had bred the 
creature who .so stung him. He had bragged of Garling’s- 
finance, of Garling’s keenness, of Garling’s trustworthiness 
— he had promoted him from post to post; he — known as a 
sound man of business — had so belauded and so trusted 
Garling, that all men had accepted him. How could he 
blame himself bitterly enough? He raged up and down the 
room again. So, now in a whirlwind, and now in a sudden 
calm, and now back again into the whirlwind, his thoughts 
fought and wrestled. But one thing became abundantly 
clear to him. If he desired to survive this blow at all, and 
still more if he meant to repay it — and he did — he must be 
calm. And the first way to that was to make up a definite 
mind as to the course he should take. There was no fear 
— except a certain phantom fear that would intrude itself 
however often banished — that Garling could as yet have 
taken fright. There was little likelihood of his learning 
of his employer’s nightly visits to the office, and no reason, 
therefore, for him to think himself suspected. It would 
be best on all grounds — if it could be safely done — to learn 
everything before bringing his charge; and after much 
doubtful examination, he decided to wait, and by nightly 
studies of the books, to learn all that could be learned. 
But an impulse, which seemed merely accidental, threw his 
resolve to pieces. 

He took a bath, and tried to breakfast; and after a time, 
returning to his bedroom, carefully darkened the room and 
lay down to sleep. For some hours sleep seemed unlikely 
enough, and he did nothing but fight over all the old 
ground again, passing through new rages and new revenge- 
ful pauses of rage; but at length quite suddenly, as he lay 
with closed eyes lie fell into a doze, and thence, after some 
uneasy tossings, into a deep if troubled slumber. When 
he awoke, the brief spring day was already fading into 
dusk. He arose refreshed; and his thoughts instantly re- 
curring to the business before him, he felt a sort of hunger 
and hurry to begin it, and waited with much impatience 
for the hour of nine. It was half because he had named 
that time to the watchman, that he chose it now; for he 
was in a mood to be guided by hints of superstition and 
beginnings of foreboding; but there was solid reason for 
not going earlier, since on uncertain and irregular occa- 


148 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


sions, the whole staff of clerks stayed late, and it was es- 
sential to his purpose to be secret. 

The night was raw, and as desolate as only night in a 
great city can be. There was a filthy mist abroad, bedrag- 
gling the lamps and the illuminated windows; and the pave- 
ment was slimy to the feet, as though the mist had been 
beaten and trodden down by the traffic into that consist- 
ency. At fretful, unavailing war with the mist, there was a 
miserable wind, maudlin, and moaning its own discomfort, 
shivering and whimpering in such a fashion as to become 
trying to the human temper and provoke impatience at its 
feebleness. Even the most inveterate loungers were with- 
in doors to-night, and only misery and business were abroad. 
Mr. Lumby walked on stoutly, until, without apparent 
reason, he came to a sudden halt, and stood staring thought- 
fully at the greasy pavement. So far as he could have 
told, then, or afterward, there was absolutely nothing in 
his mind to determine him. He had thought the whole 
matter over, and had decided on his course. And yet in 
the pause he made, he changed his resolution, and turning 
to the right, swung straight toward Garling's chambers. 
Teaching Fleet Street, he began to examine the numbers 
of the houses, and went peering through mist and night 
from door to door. He knew Garling’s number, but had 
forgotten the look of the house, if ever he had known it. 
As he went on peering from door to door, a cabman, a 
dozen yards in front of him, came stumbling across the 
pavement with a canvas-covered box. He placed this on 
the top of his cab and stood by the door. A girl, closely 
wrapped against the mist and cold, tripped over the pave- 
ment and entered the vehicle. Following her came a man, 
muffled to the chin, and carrying a satchel of black leather. 
Crawling slowly along the same side of the street came a 
hansom cab, and Mr. Lumby, with bent head and a feigned 
lameness in his gait, stumped swiftly to it and stayed the 
driver with a motion of his hand. The hansom pulled 
ivp three yards behind the four-wheeler. 

“ Where to, sir?” asked the foremost driver. 

“Waterloo station, main line,” said Garling's voice in 
answer. 

Lumby standing, and facing the driver of the other cab, 
waved to him to be still. “ Follow,” whispered the mer- 
chant across the top of the cab. The cabman Ved, and 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


149 


drove slowly in Garling's rear. “ Is this the flight?” asked 
Lumby of himself — “ Is this the flight?” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

REGINALD, IN HIS FRIENDSHIP FOR VAL STRANGE, BEGAN 
TO GROW DESPERATELY FEARFUL FOR HIM. 

Mr. Reginald Jolly and his father walked together in 
Piccadilly. Even Captain Morris, the sometime laureate 
of the West End, would have found but little in his favorite 
haunt to praise on such a morning. Mud and mist were 
its prevailing characteristics; the mud oceanic, the mist 
Scottish, and the general outlook profoundly melancholy. 
London is the home of wonders, and among its store of 
marvels it is open to question whether there be one greater 
than the placid endurance of its people. In Stamboul — 
which is the incapable official's earthly paradise — men bear 
anything. But in London, capital city of the land of the 
free, it is singular that we make no rebellion against mis- 
rule. There was an Irishman once, who, being informed 
that for a score of years the bailiff or land-steward in a 
certain district had not been shot at, excused his country- 
men on the ground that what was everybody's business was 
nobody's business. Perhaps the same proverb applies in 
other cases; and anyhow, Piccadilly lay in its usual spring- 
tide condition. 

In all minds, good temper is not merely synchronous 
with baot-polish; but there are circumstances and condi- 
tions in which the one may disappear with the loss of the 
other. Mr. Jolly, in spite of the weather, had turned out 
of his chambers in the Albany in a beaming condition. A 
passing hansom rolled up a sudden wave of mud; the wave 
overflowed Mr. Jolly's varnished shoes and spotless gaiters; 
the cabman turned and grinned derisively; a small boy, 
with that inhuman delight in misery which only small boys 
feel, danced with joy on the muddy pavement at the sight; 
and the injured gentleman, forgetting dignity in anger, 
made at the juvenile satirist with his cane. But the small 
boy, surrounding himself with a very halo of mud-splashes, 
danced behind a lamp-post, and from that place of vantage 
hurled forth satires too ponderous — so it seemed — for in- 


150 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


fant tongue to wield; and Mr. Jolly could but shake hk 
stick at him in impotent exasperation. Turning, in anger 
curiously disproportionate to the event, such as elderly 
gentlemen are subject to on like occasions, the injured man 
faced his only son, and read on his undutiful countenance 
a smile of mirth. At that, with such reproach in his 
glance as may have stricken Brutus when dying Caesar 
breathed i( et tu ,” he walked in silence to a near cab-stand, 
and entering the first vehicle he came to, gave the word for 
home. When Reginald would have entered with him, the 
aggrieved father voicelessly waved him back and drove 
away alone. The aged-seeming youth stood upon the curb- 
stone and watched the retreating cab. His smile was lialf- 
glad, half -pensive, and he gave the small boy a penny* 
Then obscuring the remnant of his emotion with an eye- 
glass, behind which all passions faded to a stony glare, h& 
turned away, and felt a hand upon his shoulder. 

“ Hillo! How de do?” from Reginald. 

“ How de do?” from Mr. Gilbert, late yachting comrade 
of Val Strangers. “ Nice day. Your governor, wasn't it, 
who drove Away just now? Thought so. Which way are 
you going?” 

“I am a waif upon the human sea,” responded Regi- 
nald, winking behind his eye-glass with much dexterity. 
“I was going somewhere; but my guide has left me, and 
I am alone in London, and I don't know where to go.'' 

“ Come and lunch with a fellow at the Club — just across 
the road. " 

“ What fellow am I to lunch with?" inquired Reginald. 

“Come on,” returned Gilbert, and led the way to a ford, 
or crossing, by means of which they passed over the river 
of mud and came to the Club portals. 

“ Thus,” said Reginald later on, waving his hands vaguely 
at the well-furnished table, the cheerful apartment, and 
the fire, “thus we pluck sweetness from misfortune, and 
the grief of the father becomes gladness to the soil.'' Gil- 
bert, who had seen the disaster to the elder J oily, smiled, 
and pushed the claret across the table. “ Strange is in 
town, I believe,” said Reginald, a moment later. “ Have 
you seen him?'' 

“No,” said Gilbert, a slow smile again wreathing itself 
about his broad features. “ Strange and 1 are at logger- 
heads.'' When Gilbert smiled, there was this peculiarity 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


151 


about it, that the smile worked underground, so to speak, 
traveling unseen about his countenance, breaking out at 
saJient points, to disappear again and break out again, now 
in a wreathing of the lips, now in a twinkle of the eye, until 
having permeated the whole mass of his mid-England feat- 
ures, it burst forth all over in a kind of triumph. 

“ At loggerheads?” said Reginald, fixing his eye-glass in 
order to reproach him. “ Why, I thought you two were the 
Damon and Pythias of the modern world. And who ever 
heard of anybody quarreling with Val Strange?” 

“I never quarreled with , him,” said Gilbert, with his 
smile in ambush in his eyes. “ I never row with anybody. 
Not on principle, because I think a fellow ought to as- 
sert himself at times; but because I haven't energy. The 
fact is, he quarreled with me. ” 

“What about?” inquired the other. 

I think I have the letter about me somewhere,” said Gil- 
bert, pulling out some loose papers. “Yes; here it is.” 

Reginald took the letter from his outstretched hand. 
“ Am I to read this?” 

Gilbert nodded; and his companion, taking down his 
eyeglass, opened the letter, and read a line or two: “1 am 
in the dullest hole I ever got into my life;” and so forth. 
At this he turned his eyes to the address from which the 
writer dated, and saw that this epistle had been forwarded 
from his fathers house. He gave a little gasp at that dis- 
covery, and partly to cover a momentary confusion, read 
on. When he had read it through, he handed it back to 
Gilbert. “Did you send the telegram?” he inquired in- 
nocently. 

Gilberts slow smile declared itself on his lips, dis- 
appeared, shone out in his eyes, disappeared, and 
beamed suddenly on every feature. He nodded twice 
or thrice, and responded, in the phrase of the once- 
famous Muster Gerridge: “ I believe you, my boy. I sent 
it. I did more. I went out of my way to oblige him. 
You see, he asked me not to fail in making the telegram 
urgent enough to fetch him out of the place he'd got into; 
and so, thinking the first mightn't seem sufficiently par- 
ticular I sent a second; and then — so that there shouldn't 
be any mistake about it — I sent another. Then he comes 
up to town, slangs me horribly for overdoing it, and tells 
me he's done with me forever. It's Talleyrand over again. 


152 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Trop de zele. You catch me ever helping anybody again, 
and tell me of it." 

“You. don't happen to know whom Strange was staying 
with, do you?" asked Reginald. 

“Yo,"said Gilbert. “He omitted to name his host, 
and I don't know anybody but Yal himself in that part of 
the country." And Mr. Gilbert, had he known the truth, 
would rather have been shot than have betrayed Strange in 
this manner. “ Why do you ask? Do you know 'em?" 

“Ye-es!" said Reginald, again, assuming his eyeglass, 
and speaking in a tone of anything but certainty. “ I 
think I do. " 

“ They must be a wooden lot," said Gilbert, “to fright- 
en Strange in that way. In a matter of patient endurance 
of boredom, I'm a perfect camel, and Val is the next man 
to me. I never knew anybody who could endure being 
bored better than Yal, except myself of course. But then, 
you know," said Gilbert, as if depreciating his own virtues, 
“I am so used to it. I can't remember not being bored; 
everything's a bore to me, and always was, and so, you see, 
I've had lots of practice." 

“Ye-es," said Reginald, again. “Must have had." 
lie was both humiliated and indignant; but by dint of 
much self-control, he disguised liis feelings, and turning 
the conversation to other mntters, sat on for* an hour, and 
then took leave. He was eager to be alone, that he might 
puzzle out this curious affair of Strange's. If it were true 
that Yal had found tilings dull at the Grange, it was cer- 
tain that he had borne the infliction in a marvelously cheer- 
ful manner on the whole. Dull? He had been the life of 
the house — the very center of all people's enjoyment. 
Once or twice there might have been a preoccupied and 
even a dreary look upon his face — Reginald remembered 
that — but he had always emerged from his momentary 
quiet into a very fever of good spirits. There was some 
small mystery at the bottom of the matter, and the younger 
Jolly was one of those people to whom mystery is a thing 
unendurable. There was a fair share of mother-wit 
hidden in that prematurely bald head of his, and as he sat 
in deep bepuzzlement over the whole matter, some uncertain 
gleams of light began to dawn. It was evident that 
Strange must have been intensely eager fo get away, before 
he would have written such a letter to Gilbert. It was 


VALENTINE 'STRANGE. 


153 


equally evident that the reason he gave was not the true 
one. It was plain, also, that when the telegram arrived 
which should have been his excuse for leaving, he had 
changed his mind, and did not want to go. The complete 
pretense of the excuse was proved by his immediate return 
when at last the third telegram had forced him away. 
This, then, was clear — that, at the Grange, at the time of 
Val's stay, there was some unusual attraction and some 
equally unusual repulsion. Reginald cudgeled, his brains 
to remember whether anybody who might have been dis- 
agreeable to Strange had left the house between the writing 
of the letter and the receipt of the telegram. No. There 
was nobody leaving at that time. Had anybody arrived 
w T ho brought a new attraction to the place, and made him 
eager to return? No. Then the attraction and the re- 
pulsion existed there together. How? 

When the present writer was very young indeed, he was 
in love, in a quite hopeless manner, with a lady whose years 
probably doubled his own. The lady was perhaps two- 
and-twenty, and is at this time elderly and indeed a grand- 
mother. The present writer was permitted to make one of a 
water-party, and to his own ecstatic delight, was relegated to 
the boat in which the object of his unspoken adoration sat with 
a younger sister. It was a large boat; and there were sever- 
al young men who wore high collars, and otherwise made 
open proclamation of achieved maffiiood, told off to it ; but 
there were no other ladies. One of the young men had the 
celestial happiness to be the brother of my adored. Un- 
mindful of that splendid privilege, he called to the occu- 
pants of another boat, complaining of the inequality of 
distribution. My hated rival, who was two-and-thirty, 
turned upon him: “ It's all right* Tom. We have your 
sisters. Don't ask any more ladies here!" “ Don't ask 
any more?" queried the other. “ Sisters!" It was spoken 
with extreme disdain. “ What do you think a fellow wants 
with his sisters at a picnic?" This was my first lesson in a 
phase of nature which I have since studied with some care. 
It impressed me all the more because it was uttered in re- 
spect to such a sister; and the moral I deduce from it and 
from my after-studies is this: that, as a rule, a brother is 
ignorant— is even ridiculously ignorant — of his sister's 
fascinations for other people. He is prepared to admit the 
attractions of other men's sisters — they appeal to him : he is 


154 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


not altogether amazed — though perhaps amused — that a 
man should marry or desire to marry his sister; but if the 
future brother-in-law, in a flush of that foolish fever under 
which he labors, should chance to pour out his thoughts of 
his divinity, it seems — confess it — a little ridiculous to the 
divinity's brother. Those lambent orbs in which the soul 
is made visible for the first and last time in this world for 
you or me — “item,” saith the brother, “ a gray eye or so.” 
Her sigh melts not him, her glance commands him not, he 
will grin superior at your raptures; had it been Susan, now,, 
— your sister — he could have understood it. 

Any other man knowing all that Reginald knew, and 
having but half his readiness of observation, would have 
jumped to the truth at once. It may be accepted as proof 
of considerable keenness that he reached the truth at all. 
It was a slow and doubtful process; but he mastered the 
problem at length, and was satisfied that his solution was 
the true one. It troubled him on many grounds. He had 
grown into a great liking for Gerard, and had long had the 
sincerest friendship for Strange. And he himself was 
proud, and in respect to some matters, loftily honorable. 
The British undergraduate has, if you take him in the lump, 
fewer of the Christian virtues than you might wish to find 
in him; but some of the mere heathen virtues are an abso- 
lute part of him, and men who have them not, he despises, 
and from his soul abhars. Reginald, in his friendship for 
Val Strange, began to grow desperately fearful for him. 
It was remarkable, having once made up his mind to the 
reason of Val's astonishing behavior in the matter of the 
telegrams, how true an allowance of the impulses which 
guided all three of the people involved, he was able to 
make. He adjudged to Gerard at once the unsuspicious 
single-heartedness which belonged to him; to Constance, 
the honor which baffled inclination; and to Strange, the 
weakness which made his passion so dangerously strong. 
He resolved to watch, even to make opportunities for 
watching; and if the result should confirm his thoughts, to 
speak. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


155 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ VALENTINE STRANGE, I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.” 

Constance was staying with Mr. Jolly’s maiden sister, 
who lived in a small house, at a large rental, in Chester- 
held Street, Mayfair; and thither Reginald drove before 
dinner that evening, resolved on what should seem a call of 
duty on the maiden aunt. To his profound amazement he 
found Strange there, settled apparently as a friend of the 
household. He glared at him with unveiled surprise, and 
Val himself looked almost as guilty as he felt. “Why, 
what,” cried the startled new-comer, “in the name of all 
the wonders, brings you here?” 

“Reginald!” said the maiden aunt, with some severity. 

“Don't be alarmed, my dear,” said Reginald, in re- 
sponse. “ Strange and I are old friends. ” He kissed the 
withered cheek dutifully, as he had always done, and nodded 
at Constance. He was himself again. 

“ How's papa?” inquired Constance. 

“ Drowned, drowned, drowned, as the Queen in Ham- 
let 9 says,” returned the flippant young man; and proceeded 
to relate the little episode of the morning. His eyes wan- 
dered from Strange to Constance, and from Constance to 
Strange, and he watched and speculated as he chattered. 
The mere insertion of his eyeglass seemed to lend him 
a certain sublime stoniness of visage. He watched every- 
thing in seeming to watch nothing; and, being a born di- 
plomatist, he abstracted himself gradually from Strange 
and Constance, and gave himself wholly over to the amuse- 
ment of the old lady. But, for whatever reason, the two 
made no sign, and seemed, indeed, even a little bored with 
each other, and aweary of the world. Reginald, confident in 
the freedom he could take, determined to sit out the term 
of Val's visit, and having accomplished that feat, and 
driven Strange into rising, he also arose. 

“We'll go together,” he said, quietly. 

Val, being unable to find a reason for sitting down 
again, abused himself inwardly for not having exercised 
another minute's patience; not guessing that, in that cause, 
Reginald would have willingly sat there for a week. Un- 


156 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


impressible* and even stupid as he contrived to look behind 
his glass* the little man noted everything. In Strange's 
farewell to Constance there was something of an appeal* a 
touch so fine* that the best of actors would have been put 
to it to copy the manner of it. Constance's manner was 
chilly ; but her bosom gave one long heave* and she paled 
and trembled ever so little as she said good-bye and gave 
him her hand. These signs were so delicate in themselves* 
that I have in expressing them a sort of feeling that I ex- 
aggerate them; but the keen* though vacuous-looking eye 
behind the eyeglass took in all* and the youth made his 
own conclusions. 

“Valentine Strange*" he said* pausing in the street a 
few seconds later, and tapping his friend lightly on the 
breast* “ I want to speak to you." 

Val looked at him quietly. “What is it?" 

“Come with me to your own rooms*" said Reginald. 
“We can be quiet there." 

Val* with a little sinking at the heart* foreboding what 
was coming* nodded in assent; and having summoned a 
hansom* they were trundled along with scarcely a word be- 
tween them. 

“ Now*" said Strange* turning upon him when his rooms 
were reached* “ what is it?" The air was dusky* but there 
was a fire aglow upon the hearth by which the two could 
read each other's faces. 

“Got any 'baccy?" asked the younger. “Thank you." 
He chose a pipe frointhe rack above the mantel-piece* and 
having filled and lit it* sat down gravely and smoked* with 
both hands stretched out to the red gleam of the fire. 

“What is it?" Strange asked again* this time with some 
impatience. * 

“You remember kicking Davis in the Fives Court?" 
asked Reginald* with apparent irrelevance. 

“ Yes*" said Strange* breathing tightly* and not know- 
ing what to make of this beginning. “ What about it?" 

“ Remember the fight that came after it?" 

“ Perfectly*" said Val* trying to laugh* and not succeed- 
ing very brilliantly. 

“ Remember what it was all about?" 

“ Certainly. What of it?" 

“You did me a royal good turn that day*" said Reginald. 
“ It's twelve years ago* ain't it? We've been close chums 


VALENTINE STEAK GE. 


157 

ever since that time, haven’t we, Val? And that was the 
beginning of it. Very well. You’ve always been stronger 
and richer and luckier and handsomer than me, haven’t 
you? Very well, again.” 

“ You have not been drinking, have you?” asked Strange. 

“ Half a pint of claret at luncheon,” said the little man, 
with his eyes on the red glow of the fire. “ We’ve been 
chums for twelve years. You began by licking an enemy 
of mine, and you’ve gone on with all manner of kindnesses 
ever since. And now I’m going to show my gratitude. 
You’re not the Valentine Strange you used to be. There’s 
something on your mind. Will you tell me what it is, Val, 
or shall / tell you?” Strange sat in silence. “ Remem- 
ber, Val,” said his companion, lifting his gaze from the 
fire, and looking full in Val’s eyes across the semi-darkness 
of the place, “ this is the first chance of doing you a turn 
I’ve had. I give you notice that I’m going to take it — 
mercilessly. ” 

“ That half -pint,” said Val, “was longer or stronger 
than common. Have a nap.” 

“ Am I to tell you what it is?” asked Reginald, with no 
alteration in his tone, and with his eyes still fixed on his 
companion; “ or will you tell me?” 

“ Oh!” cried Val, in a tone of easy impatience and de- 
rision, “ let us have it. Let me get a light. And now, go 
ahead. I’m waiting.” He threw both legs over the arm 
of his chair, and slipped back, so that his face fell into 
darkness. 

In answer to this movement, the little man arose and lit 
the gas before he spoke another word. 

Strange came uneasily back into his former posture. 
“ Confound your mystery!” he cried. “ What have you to 
say?” 

“I have something to say,” returned the other, “that I 
don’t want to say. Something I tremendously dislike to 
say. Something I must say, unless you’ll say it for me. ” 
Strange’s only answer was to cast his hands resignedly 
abroad. Reginald stood upon the hearth-rug before him, 
and had the advantage, unusual with him, of looking at 
Strange from a superior height. It is remarkable how that 
tells in a discussion — with some people. “Now, will you 
tell me, Val — you, an honorable man — will you tell me on 


158 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


your word of honor that you have no guess of what I 
mean?” 

“You little lunatic,” said Strange, with an affectation 
of good-humored raillery, “how should I tell?” 

“Yal,” said the little man feelingly, “you don’t know 
how much I know.” At last. Strange started and turned 
pale. Was it possible that Constance, dreading herself, 
had besought her brother’s interference? “ Suppose,” the 
little man continued, “ that I had met your friend Gilbert 
— East?” He threw just a trifle of malice into the pause, 
for he was angry with Strange for that deception. Strange 
moved again, and blushed. This was turning the attack 
altogether, and though the shaft hit him smartly, he could 
bear it. If the letter to Gilbert were all the mystery, he 
thought lie could make his peace. “ Suppose,” Beginald 
w r ent on, “that I had put two and two together, with a re- 
sult confirmed again this afternoon? Yal, for pity’s sake, 
don’t make me fool about in this way any longer. Tell me 
you understand me.” 

“Well,” said Val suddenly, with a desperate voice, and 
a face of pallor, “I understand you. Go on.” 

“ Thank you,” said the accuser, holding out his hand. 
Strange took it and pressed it hard, though he hung his 
head. “ Thai ’s like you, Yal, that’s honest. I’m very sorry, 
very sorry, sorrier than I can say. But you’re too late, Yal. 
And you’re a man of honor, and I’m a man of honor. And 
— he’s a friend of yours, too, Val. Now, it’s all over, - 
isn’t it?” 

“Bags, old man,” groaned Val, still holding his hand, 
and speaking' with his head still bent, “ she doesn’t care for 
him — not a straw. ” 

The little man gripped Val’s hand harder as he re- 
sponded: “We’re both men of honor, and we’re friends, 
val — friends. We can’t have her talked about. The other 
man’s in his right. She took him with her eyes open, and 
you came too late. You came in last. Well, you’ll find 
another race that’ll be better worth winning in.” There - 
was no answer to this, except a groan and a harder grip of 
the hand. “Faithful are the wounds of a friend,” said 
Beginald; “ but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. Bun 
away from it. That’s the best thing you can do. Make a 
bolt — at once.” 

“ Yes,” said Yal, stricken to the heart, “I’ll go. But,” 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


159 


he added, lifting his head, and showing a face so changed* 
that his companion was amazed and half frightened by it. 
“ it will be as hard for — ” He checked himself there, but 
the tone told all. 

“ The more need to go, if that's the case,” said Regi- 
nald, hardening himself. “ Honor! Yal, honor!” 

“I know it will be,” cried Yal, rising and casting his 
arms upon the mantel-piece. He looked around with hag- 
gard eyes. “ I know it!” he cried again, and dropped his 
head upon his arms. 

“ How do you know it?” asked the other, almost sternly. 
Yal! you haven't — spoken to her?” 

“ What do you think of me?” cried the miserable Yal* 
not daring to confess. “But I know it.” 

“I've never been hit in this way,” said the young 
philosopher, laying a friendly hand on Strange's shoulder; 
“ but I suppose I shall take pot-luck with the others 'when 
the time comes. And if men and books speak the truth, the 
only courage is to run away, in such a case as this. Start 
at once. Go to Naples.” 

“ I am sick of Naples,” said Val, raising his head 
drearily. “But I'll get away somewhere, and I'll catch 
the tidal train of to-night. Will you — will you say I'm 
gone?” 

“ Yes,” answered Reginald, moved by his friend's trouble. 
“And, Strange, look here! Stop away till it's all over. 
There's a good fellow. We shall have you back as jolly 
as a sand-boy in a few months' time. And I'll tell you 
what we'll do. We'll go to Bassano's and have a room to 
ourselves, and dine together, and I'll see you off. ” 

“Do you want to watch me?” asked Val, bitterly. 

“ That's not like you,” said the little man, reaching up 
and putting a hand on each of his friend's shoulders. “ I 
want to cheer you a bit.” 

Strange rang his bell, and ordered his servant to pack 
for the Continent, and book for Southampton. “ I'll go 
there to-night,. and start for somewhere,” he said, reck- 
lessly. “ Come on. Let's to dinner.” He rattled away 
in an almost hysterical fashion until the time for parting 
came. But when Reginald had shaken hands with him, as 
the train moved from the platform, and had* withdrawn his 
hand, he felt that there were tears upon it. 


160 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“ MY DEAR, I HAVE HAD A TALK WITH YOUR FATHER.” 

“And so,” said Carling, as lie and Hiram walked to- 
gether, “you have the whip-hand of me?” 

“That,” said Hiram, with great gravity, “is so.” 

“I am not accustomed to harness,” observed Garling, 
with his own grim smile, “ and you will make little prog- 
ress by driving me too hard. Before we go further, I 
have something to say. Shall we talk here? We can have 
quiet.” He pointed to a court upon the left hand; and 
without waiting for an answer, led the way, passing 
through a low -browed door with a sunken step, along a 
saw-dusted passage, and into a room the atmosphere of 
which w~as dense with stale tobacco-smoke. Seating him- 
self at a battered and discolored little circular table, he 
.motioned Hiram to follow his example. By this time, 
Garling was as cool and self-possessed as ever, and his 
manner was simply business-like. “ And now, Mr. Search 
— that is your name, I believe — before you drive me 
further, I must have a little talk with you. ” 

“Well,” returned Hiram, “there's biblical precedent. 
Dare say you remember Balaam. Go ahead, sir. ” 

“You are in good spirits,” said Garling quite agreeably. 
“ That is natural. But the best players are those whose 
sjDirits neither mount with gains nor fall at losses. Forgive 
me if I seem to lecture you ; but since we are to hold re- 
lationship so close as that of father and son, I can scarcely 
fail to feel a little proprietary right in you. ” The smile 
with which Garling accompanied these words was such a 
compound of craft and mirth and malice as Hiram had 
never seen before. The younger man nodded with an an- 
swering smile, and for half a minute the two sat thus look- 
ing at each other, the cashier smiling — as Hiram said long 
afterward in telling the story — “ like an octopus,” and the 
ether beaming back at him. “ This is quite an agreeable 
meeting,” said Garling, darkening suddenly. He went on 
abruptly: “ You have an object to achieve, and so have I. 
It is in your power to put me to much inconvenience — in- 
convenience to which I would not voluntarily submit — I 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


161 


am quite candid, you observe — for a thousand pounds. 
But on the other hand it is in my power to inflict upon 
you, by submitting to that inconvenience, a disappointment 
which would, I presume, be considerable. You admit 
that?” 

“Yes,” returned Hiram; “I admit that.” A waiter 
with weak eyes, disorganized hair, and a dissipated-looking 
suit of evening clothes, here entered. The waiter’s garb had 
the look — common to dress-clothes worn in the day-time — 
of having been up all night; but the waiter himself had a 
contradictory appearance of having only just got out of 
bed. 

“Did you ring, gentlemen,” inquired the waiter for- 
lornly. 

“We did not,” said Garling, resuming his smile. “I 
suppose we ought to have done so. May I offer you any 
little refreshment, son-in-law? A little brandy? A glass 
of wine? No, I will take a little brandy, waiter, pale and 
cold.” 

“Bring me a cigar,” said Hiram; and the waiter made 
his exit, like a troubled ghost, who found it a relief to be 
laid. “ I admit that,” said Hiram again, nodding across 
the table, as a hint to Garling to go on. 

“Now I am naturally a stuborn man, Mr. Search,” said 
the cashier, resuming, and I have a great dislike to being 
driven. You observe that I am candid Avith you. If I 
should find myself being driven too hard, I should probably 
kick over the traces. Now, that would be quite a melarf- 
eholy thing for both of us. You would fulfill your threat; 
I should put my power into action; Ave should each be in- 
jured irreparably, and at daggers-draAvn for the rest of our 
lives. ” 

“It is a theme,” said Hiram, “for one of the gentle- 
men who paint your coats of arms. Balaam right, quad- 
ruped left, and each Avith a drawn dagger. ” He said this 
musingly, eying Garling meanAvhile with pleased content- 
ment. 

“ l r ou are pleased to be facetious,” said the cashier, 
looking at him from under beetling brows, but smiling 
still. So, in prize-ring matters, the Putney Chicken and 
Hammersmith Pet were wont to smile on each other, each 
Avith wicked patience waiting for his chance to plant a bloAv. 

6 


162 


VALENTINE STRAKGE. 


The waiter came in at this juncture, ghost- like, and being 
again laid by the magic of a half-crown, fluttered off again, 
and once more made an appearance, and having, like the 
ghosts in legendary stories, surrendered treasure, vanished 
finally. “ You see, Mr. Search,” said Garling, sipping at 
his brandy- and- water, “that it will be unwise to drive too 
hard?” 

“ I am not particular about the pace,” said Hiram, biting 
off the end of his cigar, and looking complacently at his 
companion, “but I am bent on going all the way. But, 
come now, mister. We can get along without being so 
lovely figurative, I reckon. Move on, and say straight out 
what you want.” 

“ I will admit you,” said Garling, “ to visit my daughter 
at any reasonable hours at which she cares to see you. If 
her mind is set upon it, I shall throw no obstacle in the 
way of your union. ” 

“That's very good of you,” said Hiram dryly. 

“Not at all,” returned Garling, with superior dryness. 
“So far, I am driven. At present, Mr. Search, my 
daughter informs me — for I need no longer disguise from 
you the fact that I have talked with her upon this topic — 
that your occupation is that of a 'bus conductor. Permit 
me to indicate that I shall take a good deal of driving be- 
fore I consent to allow my only child to marry a man who 
occupies such a position. Understand, sir. I am to some 
extent in your power. To a certain extent — understand 
me clearly — you can force me. Beyond that line I will not 
go. You shall have free access to my daughter's society 
at reasonable times and in my presence. I shall place no 
impediment in the way of your ultimate union. But before 
that can come about, your social position must be much 
improved. If you accede to my terms, I shall not be un- 
willing to assist you in the effort to improve it. I do not 
think you can care to demand more than this at present; 
and I warn you that I will not yield a point beyond. y> 
There he paused, sipped his brandy and water with a keen 
and secret glance at Hiram's face, and throwing one leg 
across the other, awaited a reply. 

Hiram for his part pulled placidly at his cigar, and 
turned things over in his mind a little before he answered. 
“ Good,” he said at length — “ good, in all respects bar one. 
We air so amiable and loving-tempered both of us, that 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 163 

you don’t mind my being candid. Two is company — three 
ain’t. ” 

“When you have tried my j)lan,” said Garling, “your 
power will be no less than it is now. Be content with what 
you have. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that 
I retire gracefully. ” 

“Cupid/’ said Hiram, looking at him musingly, “is 
■ really not a part that you’d look pretty in. No, sir; it is 
not a character to suit your style.” 

Garling accepted this uncomplimentary statement with- 
out any change of countenance or sign of displeasure. 
“ Let me have a day or two in which to think the matter 
over, Mr. Search. ” That was all he said. There was no 
denying that he took defeat pluckily, and Hiram began to 
admire his courage and endurance, 

“Mister,” he returned, “I have trapped a good many 
critters of different sorts in various regions; but I never 
trapped a man afore. Most of the critters raved a good 
deal, and took it wild; some of ’em took it sulky. Now, 
you take it like a man, and I esteem you for it — I do. And 
I shall meet you fair, in consekence. Pro tempore, as we 
say in the Classics, the arrangement you suggest will fit the 
present-speaking Christian, easy. I’ve got my turn to serve ; 
but I don’t care about doin’ more than serve it, and so I’ll 
close with this remark — I sha’n’t ride rusty so long as you 
go easy. But try to slip, try one dodge, and I am down, 
sir, like a fifty-ton steam Nasmith hammer on an unpro- 
tected bull-frog. Now you know.” 

“ Having arrived at that pleasant mutual understand- 
ing,” said the cashier, calmly, “ we may part for the pres- 
ent, I presume.” 

“Not yet,” returned Hiram. “We’ll go a piece up 
Fleet Street, if you please.” 

The cashier, assenting with a shrug of the shoulders, 
arose and left the room, and Hiram followed. In this 
order they traversed Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street, the 
cashier going foremost, with bent head and hands folded 
behind him, looking unconscious of the figure in his rear; 
and Hiram, with his head in the air, sucking smilingly at 
liis cigar, coming on at an easy saunter, as though he had 
never seen Garling in his life before. Drawing near his 
own residence, the leader produced his keys, and having 
unlocked the door, admitted his companion. “ I forgot to 


164 


VALENTINE STRAKGE. 


mention one thing, Mr. Search," he said, as they stood to- 
gether at the foot of the stairs. “ My daughter must 
necessarily know the arrangement we have come to; but 
she must not know why we have arrived at it. Any hint 
on your part that you have any control over me will dis- 
solve our bargain, and I will take the consequences. You 
understand me?" 

“Yes.” 

“ And you agree?" 

“ Certainly. " 

“You will respect all my private affairs so far as she is 
concerned?" 

“ I will," said Hiram simply. 

The cashier moved on again, and selecting a new key,, 
unlocked the door at the head of the stairs. As he did so 
a smile, against which he had fought his hardest for the 
last five minutes, broke out in his eyes and wreathed his 
features — a smile so cunning, so triumphant and diabol- 
ical, that if his companion had seen it he would surely have 
found a warning in it. He did not see it; but as Garling 
feigned to fumble at the lock, in order to make time to 
smooth his face, Hiram laid a hand upon his shoulder. 
“ Here's another part of the bargain," he said severely — 
“I won't have her kept a* prisoner." 

“ There is no longer any need," answered Garling, 
throwing open the door. His face was calm again, but 
there was still a light of triumph in his eyes which made- 
him fear to show them. As he lifted his face momentarily 
on entering the room, his daughter saw upon it that new 
look, and for a moment wondered. But she had little 
time or inclination to question it; for there — wonder of 
wonders — at this cruel father's heels came Hiram, her hero, 
her lover, her man of men! Was the cruel father a good 
father, after all? She took one hurried step toward her 
lover, and her pale cheek flushed and her bosom heaved. 
Then .she stood still, with her hands a little stretched to- 
ward him; and Hiram, coming boldly in, took her in his 
arms and kissed her, and laid her poor pale little face 
against his waistcoat, whilst she cried for joy. Beholding 
this, Garling walked to the window, as if he would not 
willingly be too much in the way. 0 Hiram, traveled citi- 
zen, cutest of omnibus-conductors, cool and cunning and 
brave, you will have need of cunning and of swiftness to 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


165 


overreach the owner of the crafty eyes that look out on 
Fleet Street, whilst you pet your innocent treasure and 
make much of her! Be wary, Hiram! And you too, Gar- 
ling, swift of mental fence, triumphing — be you wary, lest, 
in an hour you know not, the solid way before you shake 
and yawn and ingulf you. Crime-built castles are un- 
steadfast, Garling. Beware your ears, should the flawless 
walls come down at a run, as walls so built are like to do. 
No; Garling has no fears. 

Mary, withdrawing herself shyly from Hiram's arms, 
looked from one to another of this curiously assorted pair, 
her father and her sweetheart, in a palpitating, happy, yet 
half-fearful wonder; Garling still looking out of the win- 
dow, hiding his smile. Hiram answered her glances, and 
said: “My dear, I have had a talk with your father. He 
is willing to allow me to wait on you, and he promises not 
to throw anything between us — " 

“It is out of the question," broke in Garling, smoothly, 
speaking with his face turned to the window, “ that Mr. 
Search should dream of marriage, whilst occupying his 
present position. I shall find something for him to do, 
however, I dare say, and in that I may perhaps have to 
rely upon your assistance, Mary." The smile flashed out 
again exultant as he said this; but by a great effort, he sup- 
pressed it, and turned upon them both his ordinary face of 
down-looking secrec}L “ In the meantime, it is enough to 
say that I withdraw my opposition to Mr. Search, and that 
I leave you and him to settle matters between you. With 
this understanding — that nothing shall be hidden^ but all 
clear, honorable, and above-boarcl." He looked a singular 
advocate for openness of conduct, as he stood there with 
his furtive hands behind him, and his secret eyes in am- 
bush beneath his beetling brows; but Mary had no sus- 
picion of him; and Hiram, though he thought he knew his 
man pretty fairly, held him in his power, and could al- 
ways shake his knowledge over him. In a little while Gar- 
ling drew out his watch, and remarking that he had busi- 
ness to attend to, arose, with a meaning look toward Hiram, 
who, not being anxious to disturb the seeming concord or 
to assert his power too soon, rose also, and after a tender 
farewell, departed with his host. 

“You will write to me?" Mary whispered, following to 
the door. 


166 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ Yes, my darling — yes,” said Hiram, and was gone. 
The girl stayed behind happy, and Hiram walked away, 
happy at the new condition of affairs. 

Garling went his way, triumphant. “ Had this happened 
six months ago, it might have cost some trouble,” he 
thought as he went along with his head bent and his hands 
clasped behind him. “ Had it happened a month back, it 
might have inclined me to hurry. But happening now, 
when everything is ready, it comes as a little welcome 
excitement, and keeps one from thinking too much of 
other matters. And you have the whip-hand over me, 
have you, Mr. Search? It was not worth while to give the 
fellow into custody; the affair might have got into the 
papers a day or too soon. As it is, I have had my sport 
and gained my point into the bargain. Did you never 
trap a man before this, my astute American friend? Look 
at your trap next week. I played him well, ” he thought, 
smilingly. “It was high-comedy. I take some credit for 
the gravity of my yielding, the solemn bargaining of the 
capitulation. I declare, Garling,” he told himself in secret 
exultation, “you have a sense of humor even yet. And 
that ignoramus thought to harness me ? Tcha!” he snarled 
aloud, in vast contempt, and walked on, respected — many 
a city Clerk looking reverently at the great manager, many 
a City magnate owning to himself: “ A clever fellow that. 
Close, but a jewel!” 

“Mr. Lumby is waiting in his room, sir,” said a clerk 
as the cashier passed through the offices. 

“No sir;” said another; “he left five minutes ago.” 

“Ah!” said Garling, throwing the words across liis 
shoulder as he walked, “I shall be here if he returns!” 

Mr. Lumby did not return; and the cashier sat among 
his papers, and did his work deftly, with wonderful 
rapidity and accuracy in combination. Practice, says the 
adage, makes perfect. That is partly true even of dull 
men; but given a genius for the thing practiced, and it 
comes true literally. Four or five different sorts of men 
have I seen at work, and wondered. The keen sub-editor 
skimming with eagle flight his daily papers; mark him — 
scissors in hand he sits, and his eye has gripped a page 
ere you have read the title line on the first column. Noth- 
ing there, and over goes the leaf. Ah, here! In goes the 
point of the scissors, out comes the destined scrap, and the 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


107 


page is turned again. And, in brief, before you or I had 
fairly handled half a page with certainty, he has run 
through a dozen daily journals, missing nothing, but has 
skimmed the cream from each and all. This is the result 
of practice and a curious and rare talent. Ask any sub- 
editor how rare it is. Or see an able physician approach- 
ing a case over which commonplace men have been puz- 
zled, and watch him as he lays his finger on the cause of 
ill. Or see a great barrister with a brief in hand, a brief 
of which he knows nothing, but from which he must con- 
struct a case in one hour’s time to carry before judge and 
jury. You would say he absorbs and mentally assimilates 
the contents of a folio by touch, rather than that he reads 
it. Yet swiftly as he goes, he masters it; and in court, 
one brief hour hence, you might think him familiar with 
the complicated case from infancy. Or once again, see a 
young artist struggling to draw some impossible bit of fore- 
shortening, and then see finished genius take the brushes. 
All these things are here named to typify Garling at his 
business. Came a tangle — his hand unraveled it. Any- 
thing wrong — his eye detected it. “Here is the flaw.” 
The great piles of correspondence and sheets of figures to 
be examined melted before him. The piles examined grew 
and grew. It was a terrible pity that he was a scoundrel. 
It is related that a Greek father took his son to a merchant 
and proudly introduced him as “ the greatest liar in the 
Levant. ” And the chronicler adds that the merchant ac- 
cepted of the youth’s service with tears of joy. But in the 
West we have got into the habit of regarding probity as a 
business essential. In all but honesty, Garling was a very 
pearl among business men. But what a “but!” 

The night came. He could count the nights now for 
which it would be essential to remain for the comjfietion 
of his plans. They were growing few, and in spite of the 
man’s colossal composure, were growing terrible to endure. 
For it was not too late yet to restore all, and be honest, 
and yet well-to-do, and Conscience whispered sometimes 
that life would be sweeter so. It was no vulgar crime that 
that he had planned, as it was no vulgar criminal who 
planned it. Here, for now nine years, had he worked 
patiently and gently, unloosening every here and there 
with subtlest fingers a tie which held complete control 
from him, and gradually drawing every string of the vast 


168 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


concern into his own hands. Then feeding his own re- 
sources slowly from those of the firm, and if needful, feed- 
ing the firm again from the fund thus fraudulently ac- 
quired, swelling his wicked gains year by year, and always 
fending off the crash to make his gains the larger — he had 
played his game so long that at last everything was his, 
and the great house of Lumby and Lumby was a bubble 
which would burst so soon as he shook it from his finger. 
There was nothing more to be got ; the egg was sucked dry, 
the nut scraped clean out of the shell; and he waited mere- 
ly for the transfer of his own legally acquired belongings to 
Spain, the swindler's refuge. 

N ow, as the time drew near, he adopted any precaution, 
no matter how ridiculous it seemed, that occurred to him; 
and on this night he took a little packet of cigar ash from 
his purse, and strewed a tiny pinch on the top of every one 
of those gigantic ledgers in which his secret slept. His 
fears had grown so morbid that he had to arm himself 
anew, as it were, at every crevice of the armor he had worn 
so long. Even as he did this, he sneered at himself, and 
mocked the fears which prompted him. “ And yet,” he 
muttered, “ why should I be so infatuated as to miss any 
precaution I can think of. The books are not likely to be 
moved : but if they should be, I shall know it now. '' 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ I MUST GIVE MYSELF WHAT LAW I CAN." 

There was a triumph in Garling's heart, though it had 
to share its throne with fear. He had fought against 
the world single-handed, and he was winning. Most crimes 
spring from egotism; and Carling's egotism was too great 
to leave the rest of the world the barest elbow-room. In 
his self-centered lonely life, this many a year, he had 
schooled himself thoroughly in that creed of Number One, 
which never needed teaching, and yet is taught so widely. 
You and I, who go about diffusing our sympathies on other 
people, miss the selfish, lonely raptures which warm the 
heart of the true egotist. He is not merely Gulliver in a 
Lilliput, to his own feeling, but he is so without the shad- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


169 


ow of a reason; for egotism and vanity may be, and often 
are, as separate as the poles; and he knows himself no taller, 
no wittier, no wiser, no handsomer, than the rest of man- 
kind; bat he is /, and that stupendous fact raises him until his 
forehead strikes the stars. He is the central fact of the 
universe. Round him, men and circumstances revolve, 
ministering to his comfort, or afflicting his bones. If 
Nature raises a tornado, it is on purpose to wreck his 
paper-boat in a gutter. Should a trampled people, after 
long centuries of groaning, rise, and tear the oppressor 
from his place of power, it is to depreciate the value of his 
shares in the market. If anything affect him not, it is 
nothing, though it wreck or build a world. And when a 
man thus armed as in triple brass against the woes of 
others and their joys, is cursed with the good gift of brains, 
he may scourge a continent like the great Bonaparte; or 
wreck a business firm or so, and break a trusting heart or 
two, like Garling. 

Mary’s life had *been on the whole so dull, that a little 
sunshine went a long way with her. Her father’s unex- 
pected yielding had let in so broad and warm a gleam upon 
her darkened life, that in the few hours that passed between 
his going and his coming, the girl’s heart had opened like 
a flower. When he returned that night, sunk deep in his 
own secrecy,, and a world’s width away from her in his 
desert egotism, she gave him a shy and tender welcome, 
and fluttered about him with shy and tender ways. His 
heart had no door for her, and her poor little attentions 
stung him. He bade her go to bed; and when she obeyed 
him, he kept his place with folded arms by the dull fire, 
and hugged himself, and worshiped his own triumph. Sud- 
denly, as if a peal of thunder had broken in on music, one 
thought crashed through him, and brought him to his feet. 
What if his employer had heard the talk in his room that 
afternoon ! Amazing, that he had never thought of that 
before. It was enough — had he heard it — to arouse Sus- 
picion — though Trust had drugged her dead! Then fear 
took hold of him, and terror encompassed him. But he 
was not a man to be cowed, and could face even the phan- 
toms from his own abysses; and his stout courage had 
beaten down his fears long before his nerves had ceased to 
twitch and tremble at them. In these matters the soul is 
like the wind, and the body like the sea. A child, chidden 


170 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 



for a fault, falls asleep, crying, and liis pure mind runs 
into pure dreams, and liis little heart is glad; but however 
the wind has fallen, the sea still heaves. You may hear 
him sobbing, though he smiles in his dream. And this 
elderly scoundrel's nerves still twitched and trembled, 
though his heart had grown stout again. 

“ If I am caught at last/' he said, “ and lose the game I 
have played for, what do I lose? The game, and only the 
game. Credit and liberty are mine still, and I am as well- 
to-do as honesty could have made me. There lies a quarter 
of a million safely housed in the Bank at Madrid, and ac- 
cessible to me only. I am caught? Well and good. * Let 
me go again, if you please, or, though you hang and 
quarter me, you touch none of your money.' Like other 
men, I have dreamed my dream, and I waken. Dream? 
It is no dream! What time remains for detection? lean 
be away at any hour. Why stay at all? Why stay?" 

He took a Bradshaw from the table, and studied it. 
There was a night train set down there, leaving Water- 
loo Station for Southampton at half-past nine o'clock. A 
steam packet for Cadiz, calling at Corunna, was set down 
for the ninth and twenty-fourth of each month. This was 
the twenty-second. He decided in a flash. Whatever 
pretense of business was to be done to-morrow at the office, 
he would do, and be away by that night train. So, then, 
at last, the time was here; looked forward to for years, 
and terrible now it came. As he sat beside the fire, he could 
see the office going on for an hour or two, even a day or 
two without him — everjffiody going on in the old routine; 
and then, scared and astonished faces, whisperings, fears, 
amazement, the principals summoned; a meeting with the 
Bank manager, everybody present grave and pale — and 
then, the crash, and he on the seas far out of reach, or 
safely housed at Madrid. 

“ Let me see," he mused again, “ I must give myself 
what law I can." He sat at the table, and wrote on the 
firm's paper one letter, running thus: 

“ Memorandum. 

“ To Messrs . Hutchinson & Co ., Liverpool . 

“Kindly read inclosed, and if it suit your views, in- 
dorse, and forward to Parrivacini & Co., Buenos Ayres." 




VALENTINE STRANGE. 171 

Then on plain letter paper, he wrote, dating from his 
own chambers: 

“ Sir, — P ray excuse my absence for a day. I am called 
away by private business of an urgent and particular nat- 
ure. Yours respectfully, 

“ E. Garling.” 

This epistle was intended for Mr. Lumby, at the offices of 
the firm. He inclosed it in an addressed envelope, which 
he stamped, and left open. Then putting both it and the 
memorandum in another envelope, he addressed it to 
Messrs. Hutchinson & Co., of Liverpool, and posted it at 
once with his own hand. 

“ Lawson will open it,” said Garling with a chuckle, as 
he turned homeward again, “and thinking he sees a blun- 
der, will post the inclosure at once. It will reach London, 
bearing the Liverpool postmark, on Wednesday morning. 
If by that time there should be any suspicion, the post- 
mark will send them to Liverpool, whilst I am at the other 
end of the country.” Lawson was the manager of the firm 
to which this ingenious blind was addressed; and so excited 
was Garling’s imagination at this time, that to think of Law- 
son was to see him seated in his own room, smiling gravely 
at the supposed blunder by which the wrong letter had 
been inclosed to him. The inclosure was not in Garling's 
usual neat and trim calligraphy, but w T as written at head- 
long speed, to look hasty and flurried. “If it gives me 
but the day*s law it will serve my turn,” said the cashier, 
as he stood before his dying fire again. The night was late 
by this time, and the tide of life in the City^s streets ran 
low. He sat for awhile listening to the fainter tones of 
traffic, and busy with the trifles of his scheme. The rail- 
way station with its hurrying crowds, its gleam of light 
and gloom of shadow, the guard s lamp waving, the train 
moving. The packet with its deck as warm with life, the 
signal given, the hand-shakings and embraces; the ship in 
motion on dark waters, the lights of the town twinkling 
lower and lower, the long rolling of the open sea. He saw 
these things as he sat there. It was vain to try to sleep, 
so he heaped on more coals, and sat out the night, busy 
with trifles all the time. The night wore by, and the dawn 
looked in miserably, and after a time, Garling heard the 


172 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


step of the laundress on the stairs, and retreated to his bed- 
room, where he bathed and shaved and dressed, emerging 
a little paler than ordinary, but not much. At the usual 
time, he went to the offices and to his own room there. The 
common routine of business done, he inspected the enor- 
mous ledgers which lined the room, mechanically pursuing 
the precaution of the previous night, whilst in his heart he 
laughed at it. But it weakened his knees beneath him to 
see that from one of those volumes the dust so carefully 
strewn had vanished. It was but a child's precaution, and 
yet it had discovered something. 

“No creature has the keys but him and me,” said the 
cashier, in a hoarse inward murmur. “ Is the hunt afoot 
already? Was that fool overheard here after all?” And 
for all his courage, a cold perspiration burst out upon his 
forehead. But no man guessed his troubles, and no man 
watched his movements as he went in and out. He walked 
to his banker's. “Why should I finesse and wait?” he 
asked himself, and went calmly in and demanded to see 
the manager, by whom he was received with marked re- 
sj>ect. “ Do you know,” asked Garling, closeted with the 
manager, “ what people are saying about your affairs 
here?” The stroke he was prepared for was insolent in its 
audacity. 

“ What are they saying?” asked the manager, in sur- 
prise. 

“You will learn soon enough,” answered Garling. “ I 
am getting nervous, perhaps; but I have the savings of my 
life-time here, and I can't afford to risk them. I want to 
close my account.” 

The manager looked thunderstruck, and assured him 
that, if any damaging rumors were afloat, they were utterly 
unfounded. 

“Perhaps I am nervous,” said Garling; “but I will close 
my account, if you please. ” 

The official demurred. It was not courteous or business- 
like. Fears were preposterous. 

“I will close my account, if you please,” reiterated 
Garling. “ Or,” he added, “I, too, may have occasion to 
spread the rumors." 

“ Then by all means withdraw your balance,” said the 
manager, half wrathful, half amazed; and Garling received 
his money — five or six thousand pounds — his own, honestly 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


173 


his own,, every penny of it — put it, mostly in Bank of Eng- 
land notes for one hundred pounds apiece, into a black 
leather satchel, and went his way. “I have shut his 
mouth," thought the cashier, with his own smile. 

He went home, and found his daughter there, sewing. 

“ Mary," he said, with placid gravity, “ I have a piece of 
good news for you." She looked at him silently, with a 
half smile. She was beginning to think he meant kindly 
by her. “ I have found a place for Mr. Search. It is in 
Southampton. Will you come there with me to-night? I 
want to take a house for him, and give him a surprise when, 
he comes down to his new situation. " 

And this was the man she had thought so cruel! She 
would have overwhelmed him by her thanks, but he stopped 
her. “ You will know better in a day or two for what you 
have to thank me," he said, meaning it quite truly, though 
the words carried a different sense to the sjieaker and the 
hearer. Then, locking his precious bag in bis own room, 
he told her to have all things packed and ready by nine 
o'clock; and she having promised, he went to the offices 
again and bided his time. Cold and hard and grimly self- 
possessed as he looked, he suffered torments of suspense 
and dread. But he bided his time, and got through liis 
routine, and filially went his way, leaving the mine to ex- 
plode and the house which had nourished him to fall in 
ruins. And there was not a touch of ruth, or pity, or re- 
pentance in him. At nine o'clock he had a four-wheeled 
cab at his door, and the start was made in ample time. 
Familiar Fleet Street rumbled past him. He would never 
tread its pavement any more, but there would be rare talk 
of him there in a day or two. Let them talk — whoever 
chose! He had a quarter of a million sterling out in Spain, 
and he could afford to be talked of. Waterloo Boad. The 
bridge, with the river flowing dark below it. The station, 
with its hurrying crowds. He had seen them all last night, 
in fancy so vivid they had all seemed real. He saw them 
in reality now, and they all seemed like a dream. Mary 
was already seated in the railway carriage, and he was ' 
standing at the door, with the black bag in his hand. Ex- 
cept for his daughter, the carriage was untenanted, and he 
laid the bag on the seat, and for one moment looked round, 
asking dimly if this were really a farewell to London. The 
guard's lamp waved, the whistle sounded, and Garling's 


174 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


foot was on the step of the carriage, when a hand with a 
grip of iron took him by the arm. 

“ One word with you before you go, Garling." 

The cashiers head turned more like that of an automaton 
than that of a living creature. 

“ Are you going?" cried the guard. 

“No!" shouted Lumby, with his grasp tightening on 
Garling's arm. The two men — defrauder and defrauded — 
looked each other in the eyes. One read guilt and the 
other suspicion bursting into certainty. The train 
started. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

RUNNING AWAY FROM DISHONOR. 

Val Strange sat alone in a smoking-carriage in a train 
bound for Southampton, and whither he might go from 
that starting-point, he neither knew nor cared. One. place 
was likely to be as blank and empty as another for many a 
year to come, he thought, and the world held nothing 
worth doing or seeing or thinking about. He was sore 
against himself, for it seemed only his own blunder which 
had driven him away. He was angry with Gilbert for hav- 
ing betrayed his confidence, and angry with himself for 
having put it in his power to do so. He confessed that if 
he had warned Gilbert, the secret would have been safe in 
his hands; and he was very angry about his own stupidity. 
Once or twice his heart told him, “It is better as it is;" 
but on the whole it was not wonderful that this reflection 
had little power to soothe him. Reginald's declaration 
about their being “both men of honor" hit him hard. 
He had been honorable once, and lie would have scorned 
in another the action which he himself had taken. He had 
planned to undermine his friend in the affections of his 
plighted wife. That was the plain English of the business, 
and black enough it looked when set forth simply so. 
But then came his excuses. Egotism, parent of dishonor 
and crime, put forth her plea. He loved, he suffered, he 
would be miserable for life. Not even yet had Egotism 
power to blind him altogether, and he saw that there were 
two sides to this, as to most other matters. Gerard loved, 
not so deeply as himself perhaps; for who could credit 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


175 


that? — but still he loved her, beyond doubt, because no man 
could help it. And Gerard, if robbed of her, would sutler, 
too, though he would learn to live it down. W onderf ul how 
easy it seemed, how likely it seemed — this learning to live it 
down — in the other maids case; how bitterly hopeless and 
dreary a prospect it presented in his own. This faculty of see- 
ing your own side big, and other peopled little, it is which 
makes wars, breeds hatreds, fills jails, and feeds the scaffold. 
The immortal precept which bids man love his neighbor as 
himself, aims a blow at crime, which, if it took effect, were 
fatal, for it strikes egotism dead; and the thief would no 
longer steal, if he, ignorant, vicious, and ugly, could be 
brought to know that the philanthropist, his victim, lovely 
in men’s sight, learned and pious, has claims upon the 
world which are equal to his own. But he dreams not of it, 
and does not indeed properly realize any other human 
creature’s existence. Other men are not alive to us, and 
therefore we injure or neglect them. They go about as- 
suredly, and conduct business, and marry wives, and rear 
children, and what not; but it is only you who are really 
alive in the middle of these simulacra , only you who love 
thus passionately, who suffer thus profoundly, who dream 
thus loftily. It was not only the half cured Wind man in 
Palestine who saw men but as trees walking. 

Even in our bitterest hours we do things which are 
habitual to us. VaTs cigar-case was his one source of com- 
fort at all vacuous times, and he went to it now. Mechanic- 
ally he drew it from its place, mechanically chose a cigar, 
mechanically felt in his pockets for a vesta. First here, 
and then there, his fingers strayed, until his mind woke up 
and took part in the task. The little silver box was lost, 
or left behind, and it became suddenly a matter of the 
gravest importance that poor Yal should smoke. And 
here was a twenty miles run before him without a pause, 
and no chance of a whiff for an eternity of at least five-and- 
twenty minutes. Cruel fate! His anger at this circum- 
stance became at length comic to himself, and he took to 
chaffing himself drearily about it; but he looked half a 
score times out of the window for the station within that 
score of miles, and consulted his watch again and again. 
Time had never seemed to hang more heavily. The train 
reached the station at last, and Val’s carriage stopped oppo- 
site a refreshment-room. He leaped from his place to the 


176 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


platform. “ No time here, sir,” an official on the platform 
warned him. “All right,” cried Yal; and dashing into 
the refreshment-room, called for a box of vestas, and being 
most leisurely supplied by the superior person in charge of 
the place, rushed back again to find the train in motion. 
“Here you are, sir!” cried the guard; and he made a dash 
for the carriage-door held open. The guard slammed it 
noisily behind him, and he had recaught the train by a 
fraction of a second. But this was not his carriage, and 
indeed not a smoking-compartment at all; and to make 
matters worse, it was occupied by a lady in mourning, who 
sat veiled in one corner. Yal within himself spoke evil of 
the guard, and greatly fumed and fretted. The night was 
cold, his rugs were in the other carriage, and their sudden 
loss rendered him doubly susceptible to the chilly air. 

“Ugh!” said the ill-used creature, folding his overcoat 
about his legs and settling himself in his corner as comfort- 
ably as he could. Just then a sound struck his ear which 
made him worse content than ever. The lady in the cor- 
ner was crying, sobbing outright as if her heart would 
break. “ More misery,” said Yal to himself, as though it 
injured him that his fellow- passenger should be unhappy* 
But he was paturally soft-hearted, and could not bear the 
sight of any other creature^ trouble, least of all a woman's; 
and seeing how the slight figure heaved and shook with 
grief, he felt a swift touch of pity, and half involuntarily 
moved toward her. 

“ I beg your pardon, madam,” said Yal, baring liishead^ 
“ but you are in trouble. Can I do anything for you?” 

The poor thing only wept the more; but by and by steal- 
ing a look at him from under her veil, saw a handsome 
face full of pity looking at her with tender and troubled in- 
terest. “ I have lost my father,” said a girlish voice, so 
broken with sobs that it took half a minute to say it. Val 
looked at the deep mourning in which she was dressed, and 
nodded sympathetically. “ No,” she sobbed anew, reading 
his glance, “ that is for my mother. I have lost my father 
at the railway station?” 

“ Oh,” said he, “your father was traveling with you?” 

“ Yes,” she said. “ The train started, and left him be- 
hind. ” 

“Oh,” said Val; “he will come on by the next train. 
You mustnT be alarmed.” She was quite a child, if he 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


177 


could judge from her figure, her voice, and this abandon- 
ment of grief at so small a disaster. “ Allow me to take 
care of you. How far are you going?” 

“To Sou-Sou-Southampton,” she said, and burst out 
crying anew, as though that made it worse than ever. 

“Will anybody meet yon there?” asked Val. “ Have 
you friends in Southampton?” 

“No,” she answered. 

“ Never mind,” said Yal, soothingly. “ It will all come 
smooth by and by. Papa will come on by the next train; 
and you must stop at an hotel to-night, and meet the train 
in the morning. ” This programme seemed perfectly sat- 
isfactory to him, and his voice and face did something to 
comfort the girl, though what he said did little. She put 
up her veil after a time; and he saw that she was some- 
what older than he had fancied, and pretty in spite of her 
flushed cheeks and tearful eyes. 

“ But,” she said, looking piteously at Yal, “ I ought to 
have a ticket?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Yal, “ you ought to have a ticket. ” And 
she wept anew. “ Never mind,” he said again. “Don't 
cry. Y ou can pay at Southampton. ” 

“ But,” she sobbed, in the simplicity of grief, “I haven't 
got any money!” 

“Oh,” said Val, “you haven't any money? Never 
mind. Don't cry. Hillo! Here's another station. Ex- 
cuse me for a moment. ” Out he ran and accosting his 
servant, who was seated in an adjoining carriage, ordered 
him to transfer his belongings. He handed one of his 
rugs to his companion, and bestowed the other on himself; 
and he comforted her with sherry and sandwiches until she 
began to cry quite contentedly, and after a long time 
ceased to cry at all, only the waves could not settle at once, 
and a sob rose now and again. It was evident that she was 
not exactly a lady, and evident also that she was amazingly 
ignorant of the world. She was very frightened at the 
~ tunnels and bridges with their sudden deafening roar; and 
Val's kindly comments on this alarm of hers elicited the 
fact that she had never traveled by rail before. When, be- 
fore entering the terminal station they were called upon 
for their tickets, she permitted Val to pay for her journey 
with no more remonstrance than a wistful look conveyed. 
She stood on the Southampton platform a few minutes 



178 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


later, and gazed about her in pure bewilderment and ter- 
ror, clinging to Val’s arm. “Here,” said Val, looking 
hack into the carriage, “you have forgotten your bag. 
Have you any luggage?” 

“I have a box,” she answered, accepting the black bag 
from Val’s hand; and away she went by his side to the 
luggage-van; and the box being extricated and recognized, 
her protector rather enjoying the situation, led her to an 
hotel, ordered a room for her, and had a cup of tea sent up 
to her. He promised to meet her at breakfast in the morn- 
ing, and then sat down in a private room and smoked his 
fill, and was miserable. The fact of having done some- 
thing for a fellow-creature in trouble was not without its 
comfort for him; but he came back to his own griefs. 
Going away, an exile, leaving love behind! That millions 
had suffered so before, was no salve to his sore heart. 
Running away from dishonor — that was something! — but 
his will was not in it. He would have stayed behind, had 
he taken his choice, and have drawn Love to his bosom 
though she brought dishonor with her. And that was a 
sad condition for a man to have come to. He had still 
enough honor left to see the disgrace to which he had been 
hurrying. “ The grace being gained ” — he was sitting with 
the sealed envelope, which held Constance’s portrait, in his 
hand, and so had the line before him — “ cures all disgrace 
in me.” He knew that he would have to travel far before 
he could find a poorer sophistry than that. His conscience 
scorned it as a pun with no meaning; but Val hugged it, 
and tried hard to believe in it. It was significant of some 
power above himself, that he laid down the envelope with- 
out opening it, as he longed to do. 

Meantime Hiram’s little sweetheart slept soundly, and 
dreamed of Hiram, and of this wonderful, kind, good, 
new creature who had come into her life, and had been so 
generous. I do not believe that she had ever conversed 
with a gentleman until that evening, and she had been 
somewhat in awe of his splendors — the magnificent diamond 
on his white finger, his eyeglass, his mustache, his little 
joointed sixteenth-century beard, his fine clothes, for Val 
was always a dressy man, though he never overdid the 
thing. And then he had made absolutely nothing of 
money, of ever so much money, and he kept a man-serv- 
ant, who dressed as well as Hiram, and looked almost as 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


179 


grand. The hotel was such a building as she had never 
seen, except from the outside; and the furniture, and the 
waiters, and the chamber-maid, all rather overwhelmed her 
untraveled spirit. But she bestowed herself in the big bed 
with a combined sense of adventure and luxury, and was 
fast asleep in a few minutes, and slept, indeed, until the 
chamber-maid ^s knock aroused her. She looked neat and 
pretty in her plain black dress and spotless cuffs and collars 
of white linen, but she shrunk inwardly to think that only 
ladies had a right to be in so magnificent a place as this, 
and reflected with sadness that ladies always went habited 
in silken gorgeosities, with gold chains and real lace and 
other marvels about them. She ventured out into the vast 
hotel corridor, and its waste silence frightened her so much 
that she retreated, and felt so utterly lonely and deserted 
that the tears of last night were almost on flow again, when.* 
with a little dictatorial knock, the chamber-maid entered 
and said that breakfast was ready. So Mary meekly fol- 
lowed the chamber-maid, who led her once more into VaBs 
presence. Let it be recorded to his credit that he had on 
this occasion surrendered one of his own specially beloved 
habits. He disliked crowds and table d’hote, and being rich 
enough to secure privacy wherever he went, had strength- 
ened native tendency by habit, until a public eating-place 
was hateful to him. Breakfast, in especial, was a meal he 
liked to lounge over in privacy, in dressing-gown and slip- 
pers. But thinking wisely that the girl would rather be 
spared a tete-a-tete, and that her present position — alone* 
and with a male protector who was a stranger — demanded 
all possible delicacy of treatment, he ordered breakfast for 
two in the coffee-room, and thither she was shown. The 
breakfast service hit the untraveled maiden hard — the cut- 
glass, and the bright electro-plate, and the dish-covers. 
There were well-dressed people of both sexes in the room, 
and the room itself was large, lofty, and richly papered and 
corniced. She sat down in a tremor at all this, and Val 
had some little trouble in putting her completely at ease. 
Not that there was any open sign of gaudier ie or ill-breed- 
ing about her — she would have passed for a lady with won- 
derfully little practice. After breakfast Val took her to 
meet the early train, but no G aiding came by it, for the 
best of reasons — or the worst. She told him with child-like 
naivete all her little story, if you except the fact of Hiram: 


180 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


and Val learned that she had lived all her life with the 
mother whom she had so lately lost, poor thing, and had 
worked this last three years as a milliner in the city. She 
was not at all clear about Garling, but supposed he had 
been away abroad — vaguely, and had only lately returned. 

“ And you don’t know where he was coming to — in 
Southampton?” her companion asked. 

“ No,” she answered falteringly. 

“ And he doesn’t know where to send you?” 

“ No,” she said again. Val pondered as they went back 
from the station .together. Was this mere child purposely 
thrown loose upon the world? Wickeder things than even 
that were done every day, and it was quite possible. 

“ Where does your father live?” he asked her. But as 
this question evidently embarrassed the girl, Val proceeded 
on another tack. 

“Do you know anybody else in London who would take 
care of you?” he inquired. 

“ Oh yes,” she said, brightening a little to think of Hi- 
ram. If she could only reach Hiram she was safe. 

“Had you better not send a message and go back?” 

“ I can’t send a message,” she faltered. “ I don’t know 
the address.” 

“ Can you find the address?” he demanded. 

“No,” she answered; “but I can find him. He conducts 
an omnibus, and it goes up and down Cheapside.” 

“ Oh!” said Yal, with a curious glance at her. “He con- 
ducts an omnibus, does he? And it goes up and down 
Cheapside? Very well, then. And you are quite sure of 
being safe, if you find him?” 

“Oh yes,” she cried, with so much certainty, that Val 
read the whole thing at once. 

“ Very well,” he responded. “ You had better go back 
to London. Do you know what to do with your luggage 
when you got to the station?” She knew nothing. “I 
never met such an unsophisticated little creature in my 
life before,” he said to himself. He explained to her how 
to leave her luggage at the cloak-room, and to take a ticket 
for it; and next he sought out the station-master, and told 
him where to send any inquirer who might come from 
London on the outlook for a daughter. To be brief, he 
saw her away by the next train, Garling still being absent 
from the scene; and having paid for her ticket, he be- 


VALEKTIKE STRAKGE. 


181 


stowed her in a carriage, committed her to the care of the 
guard, and slipped a live-pound note into her hand as the 
train moved off. His manly kindness to this poor waif of 
fortune thawed his own numbed heart awhile, and then he 
went away and forgot her. She never forgot him — it was 
scarcely possible that she should forget so notable a figure 
in her small life-history. She was faithful to Hiram; but 
a wonderful sort of worshiping admiration surrounded the 
kindly and generous stranger in her thoughts. Faithful 
to Hiram! Val no more disturbed her faith than if he had 
been a creature from another sphere, a conventional angel, 
or some other such wonderful wild-fowl. But sjio remem- 
bered him, alike with gratitude and affection, and eagerly 
repaid him when the time came. And it was not her fault 
if the service she rendered him went toward his own undo- 
ing; but his, who chose the service for her. 

The weather was growing mild, and in the country 
places, spring was stealing up apace, working all her yearly 
miracles by the way. The air grew balmy, and the sky 
clear. “ What does it matter to me where I go?” said 
Val, desperately. The open sea would somehow be in tune 
with his mood, he fancied; and so he shipped for the West 
Indies, after lounging for an uneasy day or two at 
Southampton; but speeding toward the Islands of Spice 
over a sea and under a heaven which grew daily more 
lovely, he found no peace of heart. He wrote before start- 
ing one brief letter to Reginald, in which every line breathed 
recklessness and despair. He had locked Constance’s por- 
trait in the largest of his trunks, and had it buried in the 
ship’s hold, without much avail, since it haunted him 
through the long empty hours of a smooth and uneventful 
passage. Perhaps this voyage was as mistaken a remedy 
as he could anyhow have indulged in. He had nothing to 
do except to smoke and moon about the decks and think 
of Constance and his own unhappiness. His fellow- 
passengers were few and disagreeable. They comprised a* 
Jewish lady who had been handsome, and remembered 
what had been so clearly, that she had no perception for 
the present, but dressed and ogled eagerly for Val’s delight: 
a beady-eyed boy of twelve, her son, who had been at school 
in England, and w^as, from a combination of causes, down- 
right intolerable: a ponderous British person, who oiled his 
hair, wore crumpled linen, and much flash jewelry, and 


182 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


spread dirty hands on the dinner-table to have his rings 
admired: and a couple of British youths fresh from school, 
who were going out to a sugar estate in Jamaica. These 
young gentlemen being newly liberated from the restraints 
of civilization, drank brandy-and- water all day long, and 
smoked, by way of announcing the complete attainment of 
the rights of man, the vilest Cavendish to be got for love 
or money. The condition of Yaks mind was such that 
these people one and all became hateful to him. They 
were not nice people, and under any circumstances he 
would have chosen their room rather than their company; 
but now they seemed to inspire him with a disgust of all 
his species. For the first time in his life, he was morose 
for a week together; and being forced inward, he fed upon 
his own heart, and found it innutritive and spiritually un- 
palatable. He was so far gone, that he never once brought 
himself steadily to contemplate this as a final parting from 
Constance, and when that view of the journey insisted on 
being faced, he put it away from him savagely. He was 
going away — that was enough, surely. He was already 
absent and in pain; why torture himself needlessly? Slowly 
but surely, his mind began to slide back to the contempla- 
tion of an immediate return. It was clear enough that if he 
ventured upon such a course, it must be pursued secretly 
and without Reginalds knowledge; and thus he found 
himself pledged to crookeder courses at every succeeding 
stage. This journey began to assume the aspect of a penance 
voluntarily undertaken, and turning out to be unavailing. 
Val found it anything but eaay or pleasant to be a scoundrel; 
he was so unfortunately susceptible of popular opinion, so 
anxious to stand well with all men, and to have the good 
opinion even of strangers. This feeling operated now so 
decidedly, that even when he had determined to return, he 
would not go back by the ship in which he made the out- 
ward voyage, lest the captain and the crew should think 
him an uncertain vacillating fellow who did not know his 
mind, and was moving vacuously for no purpose about the 
world. He even made a pretense of business to his servant, 
whilst awaiting the departure of the next homeward-bound 
vessel, to conciliate his good opinion. Excuses were not 
lacking for him, as he steamed homeward. He had gone 
away, and found it impossible to remain. Perhaps, after 
all, circumstances might hold him apart from Constance. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


183 


Perhaps, even — so monstrous a shape could self-delusion 
take — he might see more of her, and become disillusion- 
ized. Yal Strange was not a fool by nature, and yet he 
accepted even this jDreposterous pretense of an excuse, and 
persuaded himself that it was probable. 

He reached England, and journeyed back to London. 
But town was growing full, and he was afraid of observa- 
tion, and avoided his clubs and his old companions. He 
nevertheless contrived to learn that Constance had returned 
with her father and brother to the Grange, and moved by 
some desperate impulse, ran down to Byde where his yacht 
was lying, and sailed for Welbeck Head, in the mad hope 
that somehow he might get a glimpse of her. Before he 
sighted the Head, he had been absent from Constance six 
weeks, and in that time great events had taken place. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“OF HOW MUCH HAVE YOU ROBBED US?” 

Had Garling’s nerves been of steel instead of the ordinary 
human fiber a shade tougher than common, he must needs 
have shaken a little when that grip fell upon his arm and 
the voice of his employer sounded in his ear. His head 
turned slowly, and he looked across his shoulder, meeting 
Lumby eye to eye. There was a wicked light in the eyes 
of both men. The merchant looked like a duelist ready 
to give account of a hated foe; the cashier’s glance was 
like a snake’s. Away rumbled the train; and for half 
a minute after it had gone, the two stood on the deserted 
platform, looking at each other in the light of a lamp 
which stood close by, casting its rays between them. In 
the tension of his nerves, Garling was unconscious of the 
grasp, after the first shock it gave him. Cool and ready 
as he was by nature, and swiftly as his mind recovered 
itself, that wicked frozen glance lasted long enough to 
betray him a hundred times over. 

“ May I ask,” he said in a voice that grated curiously, and 
had to be strangely forced to make it audible, “ the mean- 
ing of this rather remarkable greeting?” 

The merchant kept his eyes upon him, and for sole an- 
swer gripped by the other arm and shook him, very slight- 


184 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


ly, but strongly. This position made it somewhat difficult 
for Garling to look round; for his employer having in the 
first instance approached him from the rear, had laid his 
right hand on Garling’s right arm, and now having grasped 
the other with his left, he stood almost behind his captive. 
The latter made no attempt to move, but kept that wicked 
backward-glancing eye upon the other’s face. “Pray,, 
explain this curious action!” he said in the same grating 
tbnes. 

“You villain!” cried the other, shaking him anew — 
“you scoundrel!” His voice also had undergone a change,, 
and sounded harsh and low. 

“You will regret this violence,” said Garling. 

Lumby, without reply, thrust an arm through his, and 
led him from the platform. It would have been useless 
for Garling to resist, and he knowing that, was too wise to 
try. Lumby held to him so tightly, that when tliev came 
to enter the hansom, they bundled in together awkwardly, 
and the cashier found divers corners of himself contused. 
The cabman having 'received his instructions, drove in the 
direction of the offices, and the merchant gripped his 
captive all the way. In Garling’s mind there was such 
blank despair and rage as only a foiled scoundrel is per- 
mitted to experience. To have come so near, after waiting 
so long, and at last on the very verge of victory, to be 
thus ignominiously taken, was maddening. Frenzies of 
rage and disappointment shook his heart, and if he had 
had a weapon in his hand, there were moments in that 
brief ride in which he would have willingly struck his cap- 
tor dead. But he had still a stake to play for, though all 
his base gains of the past nine years were lost; and that 
stake was dear to him, for it was nothing less than liberty. 
There was such a strain of caution in the man, that he had 
counted on this failure all along, and had planned as care- 
fully to meet it as if it had been certain. Hot that it was 
any the less exasperating, now it came, for this prevision. 
His murderous glance, as he cast it now and again sideways 
on the fixed and silent face beside him, was warrant enough 
for that. 

The offices being reached, Mr. Lumby made the cabman 
dismount and ring the bell; and it was not until the night- 
watchman had opened the door that he permitted Garling 
to alight. “ Somethin’ real serious on foot,” thought the 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


185 


night-watchman, noting even on Garling's impassive face 
a shade he had never seen there until now, in all his knowl- 
edge of him. The cabman dismissed, the merchant mar- 
shaled Garling to his own room. As he went, the cashier 
saw that the gas jets were lighted all along that way, and 
nowhere else, as though warning had been given of their 
coming. He was in a mood to notice everything more 
closely than usual, and the great doors closing outside 
sounded to him like the closing of the doors of a jail with 
him an inmate. At any other time, he thought, the sound 
would have fallen on his ears unheeded. He was cool 
enough to smile at that, and to murmur to himself, 
“ Nerves!” by way of explanation. 

The merchant locked the door, and always holding a 
wary eye upon the other, turned up the gas. Garling laid 
his hat upon the table, and stood observant. There was so 
little change in him, so little sign of fluster or fear, that 
his employer was almost staggered, looking at him. Could 
he look so cool, and yet be guilty? They faced each other. 

“I have had reasons given me lately,” said Lumby 
slowly, panting a little as he spoke, “ to suspect your prob- 
ity. I have been making an investigation of those books, 
and have -found that you began a fraud upon the firm nine 
years ago. I presume, since I found you in the act of es- 
cape to-night, that you have completed your fraud. Or 
had you learned that I was tracing you?” 

Garling looked at him with glittering eyes, his head bent 
somewhat downward, his lips drawn tighter than was com- 
mon with him, and a little paler. His skin had fallen from 
its ordinary sallow hue to a sort of stony gray. 

“When did he begin to suspect?” he asked himself. 
“ How much does he know? Is there anything I can save 
from this ruin of my plans?” But^ he answered never a 
word. 

“Speak!” said the merchant, panting at him, in an agi- 
tation terrible to look at. “ Of how much have you robbed 
the firm?” His face was alternately gray and purple. His 
features jerked and quivered, his hands shook, and a visible 
tremor possessed liis whole body. Garling read his own 
advantage in all these signs, and still said not a word. 
“Speak! you — you scoundrel!” cried Lumby falling anew 
upon him, and seizing him bv the waistcoat and the bosom 
of his shirt. “Of how much have you robbed us?” 


186 


VALEKTIjSTE strakge. 


“Of not one halfpenny !” said Garling stonily. The 
words and manner so amazed the merchant»that he dropped 
his hands. The cashier moved quietly, so as to place the 
table between them, keejDing his eyes on Lumby as he 
stepped, and, laying one hand on the table, leaned slightly 
forward, whilst with the other he arranged his disordered 
dress. In this attitude he spoke again: “ Of not one half- 
penny, or of everything — according as you use me. ” 

If any third person could have looked upon the scene at 
this minute, he might well have been excused had he mis- 
taken the several parts they played. The just employer 
sunk into a seat with his hands drooping by his sides and a 
face of extreme pallor. The fraudulent cashier, pale 
enough in all conscience, but self-possessed and firm, 
looked down upon him across the table, still fumbling with 
his hand at his bosom. Coupled with the calm in which 
he stood and the cruel look upon his face, the action, sim- 
ple as it was, seemed deadly. It was as if he searched 
slowly and calmly for a weapon, and had the will to use it. 
Lumby made a great effort, and resumed something like 
composure. 

“ I might have guessed beforehand,” he said slowly, in a 
voice unlike his own, “ that if you chose a criminal course, 
you would go boldly and warily. I know now that you 
have chosen such a course, and I tell you that the safest 
plan for you is to make a clean breast of it and confess 
everything. Of how much have you robbed us?” 

“ Either of nothing, or of everything,” responded Gar- 
ling. “ It is in your power to bring down utter ruin, or to 
recover all. Your treatment of me will determine that.” 

“ You mean that the firm is in your power?” 

“ Precisely,” said Garling. 

“ I do not know how that can be,” said Lumby; “but 
it is a question easily tested. ” He struck his hand heavily 
upon the bell which lay upon the table. 

“ I recommend you "to pause,” said the cashier, boldly. 
“ If you fulfill your present purpose, you are ruined.” 

“ I will see,” returned the merchant. 

“You will see,” said Garling, calmly. “You propose 
to arrest me? Good. You may save yourself the trouble 
of opening your doors to-morrow. If I am arrested, the 
firm is bankrupt — hopelessly insolvent. ” 

“ We shall see,” said Lumby. The cashier’s voice and 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


187 


face, however, made such impression on him that when the 
heavy footsteps of the night-watchman sounded in the cor- 
ridor, he arose and waited at the closed door for his knock. 
The knock came, and Lumby opening the door, said only: 
“ Wait at the end of the corridor. I may want you in a 
moment.” He kept his eyes on Garling; and if in that 
stony and impassive countenance of his he had read a 
touch of fear or of boasting, either would have decided 
him. But he saw neither one nor the other. Garling 
had this advantage: he was enacting in earnest a scene 
which he had countless times rehearsed in fancy — and to 
play it well or ill was almost life or death to him. The 
door was closed and locked again, and the heavy footsteps 
retreated to the end of the corridor. Lumby, though 
liable to sudden gusts of passionate anger, and less under 
control than the other, was growing strung to some- 
thing like the enemy's pitch. The intensity of mood had 
been beyond words already; but the intensity of manner 
was now increased tenfold by the near neighborhood of the 
man, which reduced speech almost to a whisper. The 
merchant felt he had nothing to lose by a pause — he could 
afford to wait long enough to get light to go by. 

“ Are you prepared,” he asked, “ to make a full con- 
fession and restitution? Is that your meaning?" 

“I maybe induced to mean something like that,” the 
cashier answered. 

“ You may be induced?” 

“ I may be induced.” The villain's composure was a 
study. 

“To mean something like that?” — with bitter irony. 

“ Something nearly approaching to it; yes” — with per- 
fect business-like ]3recision and quiet. 

“Will you be so good as to tell me how we are in your 
power?” 

“I will explain,” said Garling, clearing his throat 
slightly. 

“Thank you,” returned Lumby — “if you will be so 
good.” Their eyes met again, and Garling's fell. His 
face became a little paler in its Jgray; but he cleared his 
throat again and Went on. His hand was still fumbling 
at his breast automatically, though he had forgotten the 
purpose which first sent it thfere. 

“ I proceeded in this matter,” he said, harshly and dryly, • 


188 


YALEKTINE STRANGE. 


“ with much caution and foresight. I have never been a 
spendthrift, and in fact I have always lived well within my 
income. As a result of that, I have been enabled to em- 
ploy such sums as I have transferred to my own service to 
considerable advantage, and ultimately to pass them, 
through varying channels, to swell the store I had begun to 
accumulate abroad." The merchant listened with a face 
as gray as Garling’s own. “The accumulations becom- 
ing in course of years, say three or four years, consider- 
able, I was enabled to keep up a constant circulation of 
capital with such irregular additions and diminutions in 
the flow as would occur naturally in the course of an ex- 
tensive business. At the end of perhaps five years, the 
impossibility of further operations of that simple order 
clearly declared itself. But by throwing up my plans at 
that time, I should have killed the goose which laid the 
eggs without having filled my basket. You will understand 
that at this time — now four years ago — everything that 
could be drawn from the firm in its then condition had 
been drawn, and that the firm lived by the continued cir- 
culation of that foreign hoard. I had labored, as you 
know, to increase the scope of the House’s operations, and 
in that direction I still labored with some not inconsider- 
able measure of success.” Half a dozen times in the course 
of this statement the cashier raised his eyes, and meeting 
his employer’s glance, looked down again. “ It would have 
been possible, since the original capital of the House was not 
only intact, but multiplied, to have proceeded upon this plan 
indefinitely. But I found myself already past middle age, 
and — delays are dangerous. The channels in which the 
funds flowed, if I make myself clear — were circular. It was 
competent for me to arrest them at any point of the circle. 
That was a work of much delicacy, and demanded care and 
time. You will excuse me for offering 3^011 at this point 
only a general statement, and for avoiding detail which 
might obscure a broad view of the position. In brief, the 
various channels have all been directed into one reservoir, 
and have there discharged themselves. There is a drop or 
two in the London pipes, but nothing elsewhere. And the 
disadvantage of the House, and my advantage is, that the 
reservoir is available to me only.” 

Mr. Lumby sat still and looked at Garling. He had 
read of frauds, heard of them iu plenty, had even assisted 


VALENTINE STKAKGE. 


189 


at the investigation of one or two; but he had never met 
with anything like the massive insolence, the colossal au- 
dacity of this defrauder. 

“You had completed your work," he said at length, 
“ and you were going to-night " — Garling slightly inclined 
his head, and moistened his dry lips a little with the tip of 
his tongue — “leaving the firm insolvent?" 

“ Leaving the firm insolvent!" Garling answered like a 
husky echo. 

“ And being caught," said Lumby with a transient flush 
of triumph, “ you are ready to disgorge?" 

“ Partly," answered Garling, “and upon conditions." 

“I will accept no partial restoration," said the merchant,, 
by this time restored to full possession of himself, “ and 
I will make no conditions with you." 

“ That is for you to decide," responded Garling, (C not 
for me. But except upon my own conditions, my lips are 
sealed. You have no clew — forgive me if I lay the matter 
before you plainly — you have no clew at present to the 
whereabouts of the money, and if you should discover it,, 
you can not handle it." 

“ I can send you to penal servitude, probably for life,"* 
returned the merchant; “and having done that I can ac- 
cept my fate equably. " 

“You are willing to buy revenge at too dear a rate," said 
Garling; “ and so far you have nothing to punish but the 
intention of a wrong. I heard it whispered this afternoon 
that you had intended to introduce Mr. ’ Gerard into the 
firm. If his wishes were consulted, now?" 

“Garling," said the head of the firm with measured 
saroasm, “ it is to be regretted that you have made so poor 
a use of your talents. I had always a high opinion of your 
powers, and until now I never saw the flaw in them, or you. 
In me, you are utterly mistaken. You measure me by 
yourself, and in doing that you really offer me too much 
injustice. I will have no traffic with you until I have a 
full and complete surrender. I will make no promise, or 
hint at any promise, until you throw yourself entirely on 
my mercy; for I vow," he cried, with a sudden passion of 
righteous anger, “ that I would rather see my son break 
stones by the wayside, than make him a Croesus by stopping 
to barter with your villainy. Decide then, and decide 
quickly. You may beggar me and mine; but, please God, 


190 


VA LENTINE STllAIs T GE. 


you shall not smear our honest hands by passing any gift 
to them through yours. ” Before this burst of wrath, Gar- 
ling bowed his head gravely and quietly, and spread both 
hands abroad a little, as if deprecating an exaggerated view 
of things. Seeing this, the merchant * again brought his 
hand down heavily upon the bell; and the watchman — who 
had heard his master’s voice raised high in anger — came 
with alacrity to answer it. “ Decide!” said Lumby again, 
in a high voice, which rang like a knell in Garling’s ears. 
But the cashier had played his game too long to be willing 
to relinquish all; and what daring could do he would do. 
With him the position was like that of a player in the 
American game of “Brag,” and he had a shrewd suspicion 
that Lumby was in something of the same mood with him- 
self. So, when the merchant cried “Decide!” he waved 
his hands again with a repetition of the deprecatory gest- 
ure, and with a little (fownward motion of the head, he 
answered, “I have decided.” The passionless gray of his 
face fell a tone lower, and Lumby saw it. Everything de- 
pended — for Garling’s surmise respecting him was true — 
or seemed to depend, on his own promptitude and fearless- 
ness of action. He called “ Come in!” in answer to the 
watchman’s knock, and threw the door wide open. 

“You abide by your decision?” he asked, briefly and 
sternly. 

“I abide by it,” was Garling’s answer. “Yes.” His 
cue was to conceal emotion, and he followed it well; but 
lie could not hide the moisture on his forehead, nor the 
twitching of his ashen lips, nor the tremor of his hand. 

“ I have your last word?” said Lumby. “ Remember! 
The next step is beyond recall.” 

“So be it,” returned Garling. Since the opening of 
the door, their colloquy had been carried on in a low mur- 
mur, apart from the watchman, who, having advanced no 
further than the mat in the door-way, stood there respect- 
fully, twirling his cap in both hands. Lumby with one 
look, which fell full in Garling’s eyes, turned to the man. 
He had but addressed him by name, when the cashier’s 
voice, chill and measured, rose behind him, saying: “Hor- 
ton! You may go outside for a moment, and close the 
door.” The man, with a look at his employer, obeyed. 
“ I throw up my hand,” said Garling. It was well for him 
that he read faces quickly and truly, and that he could 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


191 


estimate aright the resolution expressed in the gesture with 
which the merchant had turned away from him. “ I ask 
only one pledge. ” 

“I will give you no pledge at all,” returned the 
merchant. 

“ Permit me,” said Garling dryly, pushing a letter-clip 
along the table with one hand and trilling with the spring. 
“ In this matter, I would venture to urge that you have 
scarcely any option. It is of more importance to recover 
vour money than to have me transported. Until I receive 
your pledge that I go free, I will not speak a word.” His 
employer looked at him with a doubtful mastery of aspect. 
“ Observe. To imprison me is to call down certain ruin. 
Give me the pledge I ask for, and you have power enough 
to shake your last halfpenny from me. You have brains 
enough to see that!” he added coarsely. 

Lumby regarded him steadfastly. “ You are a cunning 
villain, Garling, and you have laid your plans well. I sup- 
pose I must wrong society by turning you loose upon the 
world. * Have you — forgive my curiosity — any remorse for 
having rewarded an old friend's kindness in this way? Why, 
you cur, have you no memory in the favors heaped upon 
you? Haven't you a blush? The blood is ashamed of that 
fox-face of yours, and runs away from it. You scoundrel V* 
This speech was dictated by many impulses. There was 
satire in it, and sorrow in it. There were contempt and 
anger. The final expletive was one of almost unmixed 
wonder. As for Garling, there was no denying that he 
bore the situation well. He had failed. The long-drawn 
and elaborate plot on which his splendid financial genius 
had for nine years centered itself, had crumbled to dust in 
an hour, every strand and thread of it dissolved, as though 
it had been woven of sand. He made no pretense of not 
caring, and gave no sign of being overwhelmed. He did 
not rage, and he did not fall into flippancy. He had miss- 
ed the issue of his life, and this failure told him so. He 
had been phenomenal among swindlers, and had failed as 
vulgarly, and been caught as ignominiously as any City 
prentice who steals from the shop-till and is taken by the 
ear in the act. Where under these circumstances w r as the 
good of having been phenomenal? And here was old age 
coming — he felt old now — he had been young twelve hours- 
ago, comparatively — and he was dishonored and thrown 


192 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


loose upon the world. Well, he would not grumble. He 
had weighed the stakes before he played for them, and he 
had staked and — lost. All that was left now was to come 
out of the ruin with as little damage as possible — or at least 
with as little sign of damage. So he bore his employer's re- 
proaches with a contempt which under the circumstances 
was hardly curious. 

“ Let us be business-like," he urged. The leviathan 
impudence of this reproach struck Lumby dumb, and even 
when he had recovered, it had the effect of restraining any 
further expression of his wrath. Speech was plainly of no 
effect in this case. “ If," pursued Garling, “ you will draw 
up a statement of your own intention with regard to me, I 
will put into your hands my private ledgers, which will 
show you everything at a glance." 

“ Are you so ignorant of the criminal code of England," 
asked Lumby, “ as to suppose that any assurance of mine 
given now can hinder me from prosecuting you?" 

“ I am not so ignorant of you” returned Garling, “ as 
not to know that you will not expose yourself as having 
gone back from your written word." 

“ You have my word," said the merchant. 

“ I can't show your word in court, if you deceive me," 
said Garling. 

“ I suppose," asked Lumby, “ that you have no belief 
in any man's honor?" 

“ I never had," responded the defrauder grimly. And 
there, probably enough, was the key to his ruin. Lumby 
yielded, and wrote out the pledge he asked for, setting 
forth that it was given only on condition of complete resti- 
tution. Garling thereafter sat down to the table and pre- 
pared an abstract report of his villainy. It took an hour 
or two's hard writing; and Lumby read it sheet by sheet 
as the late cashier laid it methodically by. It was lumi- 
nous, and the very soul of brevity, considering its mass of 
unavoidable detail. Garling's financial genius permitted 
him to append to this report a sort of swindler's balance- 
sheet, in which the precise position of affairs was shown, and 
wherein, by a marvelous effort of memory, dates and figures 
were set down, as it afterward turned out, with scrupulous 
exactness. 

“ My private ledgers," said Garling, “ will afford more ex- 
tended information. The final appeal must be made here. " 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 193 

He pointed to the vast volumes ranged along one side of 
the room. 

“ But that,,” he added, “ will be a work of time.” 

The balance-sheet at the end of Garling’s abstract had 
rather an air of hocus-pocus to the merchant. It seemed 
scarcely credible, for one thing, that memory should be so 
minutely retentive; and he insisted, without loss of time, 
on comparing it with the defrauder’s private entries. To 
this end, between two and three o’clock in the morning, he 
escorted the cashier home. Before he started, however, he 
locked the confession in his own drawer. 

“ It might seem worth while to murder me for that, if 
you had a chance to do it in your own place, quietly — eh, 
Garling?” 

“No,” responded Garling, with a voice of tranquillity. 
They walked to what had been Garling’s home together, 
and they worked till daylight. The merchant made him 
sit down at the table whilst he stood behind him, or occa- 
sionally, for a change of posture, knelt upon a chair. 

“ It is now eight o’clock,” said Lumby, when the bal- 
ance-sheet was verified. “ You will report yourself at the 
office to me at ten. If you are five minutes late, I shall 
give information to the police.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“he’s AN AWFULLY ODD FISH IS STRANGE.” 

Had Gerard known that Constance was going to Lon- 
don, he might perhaps have been more ready to accom- 
pany his father thither. But, as a matter|of fact, the visit 
was unpremeditated. The maiden aunt in Chesterfieid 
Street, Mayfair, had money, and was known to be kindly 
disposed to Constance. When, therefore, the old lady, 
learning from her brother that he was about to visit Lon- 
don, expressed a strong hope that he would bring Con- 
stance with him, Mr. Jolly accepted the desire as a com- 
mand. He was not unaware of the importance of money; 
and though Constance seemed already fairly provided for, 
it would still be unwise not to conciliate the maiden aunt, 
who was naturally anxious to learn at first-hand the de- 
tails of her niece’s engagement. And if Lucretia — that 


194 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


was tlie name of the maiden aunt — should express any in- 
tentions with respect to her testamentary dispositions, Mr. 
Jolly was quite persuaded that at such a juncture nothing 
could be more natural. It was not difficult to persuade 
Constance; for, to tell the truth, she was beginning to find 
the social atmosphere of the Grange a little stifling. Her 
father’s dull pomposities and shallow aphorisms were in- 
sufferably tedious. There are a good many dull and pom- 
pous fathers in the world, whose daughters, aided by Love, 
revere and admire them. Constance was unhappily with- 
out Love’s aid, and her father wearied her exactly as any 
other prosy person would have done. In his inmost soul, 
Mr. J oily had an idea that his style was Disraelian. He 
was Conservative in politics, and modeled himself naturally 
on the lines of his party chief. But it is not everybody 
who can fight in Saul’s armor, and the Disraelian style, 
handled by Mr. Jolly, was a cruel thing to suffer under. 
Eeginald found it endurable, because it awakened his own 
sense of humor. He saw the fun of it; but Constance, 
who, like many charming women, had but a limited per- 
ception of fun, saw and felt only its dreariness. The house 
itself was somewhat dull after that fever of festivity into 
which Mr. J oily had for a time plunged it, and she was 
willing to welcome any reasonable pretense which called 
her away from it. These two were the reasons which she 
admitted to herself; but there was another which had more 
weight than both of them, although she was reluctant to 
own it — she was weary of Gerard. 

Admiration is a pleasant thing to endure, but the signs 
of it may be so presented as to grow tedious. Gerard had 
no small-talk, and his icy divinity froze him. He was not 
happy in her presence; but his dreams of her presence 
made him happy. There was not the faintest doubt in his 
mind that when once they were married, they would live a 
life of pattern felicity. The old truth which it was Pope’s 
good fortune to crystallize for English-speaking people, 
operated here as elsewhere: 

Hope springs eternal in tlie human breast; 

Man never is, but always to be blest. 

The future was roseate; the present, misty. Always that 
wonderful glamour, which perhaps alone makes life worth 
living, lay about to-morrow, but never about to-day. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


195 


Whether it were an old device or a new one, I can not 
say, but I remember in the year 1865 I witnessed an acted 
morality or mystery, the memory of which has remained 
with me. The scene was the cavalry barracks at Cahir, in 
Comity Tipperary — the occasion, the annual regimental 
sports of the Fourth Royal Irish Dragoon Guards. When 
the sword-exercise and foil-play and boxing, the running, 
walking, leaping, and vaulting matches were over — when 
the men had raced behind wheelbarrows and jumped in 
sacks, and the tug-of-war was lost and won, there came, to 
crown the festival, a donkey-race. Private Paddy Byrne, 
a regimental unit attached to the F Troop — this is not fic- 
tion, but history: and when, oh when, did it cross Paddy's 
mind that an old comrade would put him in a novel? — with 
a wonderful laughable Irish grin on the Hibernian face of 
him, perched himself an inch or two forward of his donkey's 
tail, and laid between the moke's ears a switch, on the end 
whereof swung two inviting carrots and a clean white tur- 
^nip. Away went the donkey in pursuit of these tidbits, 
never more than a stride's length from his watering teeth, 
yet never attainable. Every stride deceived him; but Hope 
sprung eternal in the asinine bosom, and he still pursued. 
I was young and thoughtless in those days, and at this 
acted mystery I laughed unthinkingly. But in the years 
which have gone since then, I know now that not a day 
has passed in which I have not with equal wisdom raced 
after something no more worth having and no more attain- 
able, and Paddy Byrne's donkey has with me risen to the 
dignity of a moral my thus, preaching eternal truths. And 
he typifies, indeed, not me alone, but a whole hungry fool- 
ish world, tearing headlong in pursuit of that sweet and 
dear to-morrow which it never reaches. With the rest of 
the world, let him typify this poor hungry-hearted Gerard. 
“ If I laugh," wrote the saddest satirist that ever put pen 
to paper, “ 'tis that I may not weep." One may as well 
put things cheerfully as sorrowfully. You may suck mar- 
row of mirth, and grow as wise as by sipping the salt of 
tears — if you are a born angel, and a saint by nature. 

Mr. Jolly apprised Constance, in the afternoon, of her 
aunt's desire; and it was decided they should all three go to 
town together on the following day. Gerard came in the 
evening as usual; but she allowed him to ride away with- 
out telling of the arrangement made. • An hour before 


196 VALENTINE STEANGE. 

starting she sent him a brief note, saying that her aunt 
desired to see her, and that she was going to London, but 
of design aforethought, forgot to give her lover her town 
address. She remedied this omission a day or two later, 
when she had secured a little quiet, and had discovered that 
it is better to be bored by admiration than not to be admired 
at all. To her amazement, Gerard did not fly to her when 
she lifted her finger. A day or two passed, and she did not 
hear from him. Matters grew a little wonderful, and even 
a little alarming. We have seen already that Val Strange 
made a call upon her. Familiar as Val contrived to seem 
in Reginald's eyes, this was his first visit; but he and Miss 
Lucretia were known to each other beforehand, and Yal 
was a reminder to the old lady of her one romance. These 
renewals of youth are singular. Val's father was the only 
one among many admirers for whom Miss Lucretia in her 
youth had cared; but with that perversity which is a part 
of love, they had quarreled over some trifle or other no big- 
ger than a mote in a sunbeam, and had so parted — the man 
to forget as men forget, the woman to remember as women 
remember. Of this the young fellow knew nothing. 
Had he known, he might have sought the sympathy and 
intervention of the old lady, and have besougnt her to im- 
plore Constance to break oft' a loveless engagement. Is it 
hard to say whether such a course could or could not have 
been justified, though there is little doubt that Yal would 
have been able to justify it to himself. But he was igno- 
rant of the tie between himself and the old maid, and 
knew nothing of the affection with which she regarded him. 
Had he known, the course of this story might have been 
altered; but then, there is nothing so slight in life that 
it might not alter the course of any human tragedy or 
comedy. And now Val was gone from Constance's little 
circle, and still no Gerard came. The absence of one, and 
the silence of the other, became remarkable, before Regi- 
nald came to explain one of the phenomena, and a shock 
which was in its way a sort of social earthquake, came to 
explain the second. Reginald lounged in a day or two after 
Val's departure, and found his sister alone. Some conver- 
sational preliminaries being gone through which had but 
little interest for either of them, Reginald said casually: 
“1 say, Con., did Strange tell you he was going to the 
West Indies?" 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


197 


“Ho,” said Constance, bending closer over her em- 
broidery. “ When is he going ?” She tried to make the 
question sound commonplace and disinterested, but read 
failure in her own tones. 

“Oh,” said Eeginald, ensconcing himself for more safety 
behind his eyeglass, and watching Her keenly, “ he^s gone. 
Started yesterday. ” 

Constance, with a great effort, retained composure. 
“Why did he go?” she asked. “Had he business there — 
property there?” 

“ Oh,” said the wary youth, “ you never know where to 
have Strange. You'd think he was dead set on something 
or other, and meant to spend his life at it, and in half an 
hour he*s dead set on something else. As I told him the 
other day, he^s like Dryden/s Duke of Buckingham, 
‘ Everything by turns, and nothing long/ You never 
know what hefil do next.” 

Women are much better actresses than men are actors, 
and when Constance spoke, her nonchalance might have 
puzzled a less careful observer. She held her embroidery 
a little from her in both hands, turned her beautiful head 
this way and that, regarding it, and then, slowly raising 
her violet eye?, she dropped one negligent word: “ Indeed?” 
But she had not calculated that Eeginald suspected, and 
was watching, and so she overdid it by a trifle, and seemed 
to his keen vision supernatu rally indifferent. 

“Yes,” murmured the watcher, fixing his eyeglass 
with a facial contortion which laid the ghost of expression 
still lingering, “ he*s an awfully odd fish is Strange. You 
reaily never know where to have him. ” He was modest 
enough. to distrust his own powers, and he stopped short 
there, having done enough, as he conceived, for one day. 
His finesse was well meant, and for the moment it was 
satisfactory. 

“So,” said Constance to herself, “he has run away to 
avoid me.” Her heart sunk at this desertion. She had 
forbidden Strange ever to speak on the topic he had once 
broached to her; but she had not forbidden him her pres- 
ence, and indeed had not the strength of heart so to deny 
him or herself. She pitied him — it was sweet to pity him. 
Before she had heard his confession, she had gone the 
usual maiden path to love, and had not known to what 
goal it led her. She found his society pleasant, more 


198 


YALENTINE STRAKGE. 


pleasant than that of any man she had ever encountered — 
so much she was aware of. She knew that her society 
was pleasing to him; but for so beautiful a woman, she 
was amazingly devoid of vanity, and no thought of his 
being in love with her crossed her mind. For that matter 
her engagement to Gerard seemed to hem her about with a 
sort of Society sacredness — men did not fall in love with 
young ladies who were engaged to be married. And when 
at last Strangers wild declaration was made, her own heart 
answered it with a voice which there was no chance of mis- 
taking. Here at last was the man who held the key to her 
heart, out of all the scores who had come a-wooing, and he 
came too late. It might have seemed easy enough to do 
the only thing which under the circumstances was wise and 
honorable — namely, to send Gerard his dismissal and to 
tell him that a union between them could lead only to un- 
happiness. But the wise and right thing to do is not al- 
ways that which presents itself most attractively, and she 
had no one to advise and hel|3 her. That Gerard would 
have freed her, had she appealed to him, though he 
broke his heart in doing it, went of course without saying. 
But then, there was the natural disinclination to so pro- 
nounced an action, the natural fear of his silent re- 
proach, the natural dread of the county talk. It would 
be bitter to be called a jilt; and there was no reason or 
shadow of a reason, except the true one, which she could 
assign against her engagement to Gerard. So, like wiser 
people, she decided to let things take their course for a 
time with a vague hope that something might come to 
pass which would unravel the tangled skein and lay it 
out straight and smooth once more. And her reluctance 
to pain Gerard had more ground than a natural tender- 
ness of disposition which is happily common to most 
women. She respected him, and in her secret heart was 
sensitively afraid of his ill opinion. Notwithstanding the 
general chilliness of their courtship, they might have made a 
very happy married pair, but for the advent of Val Strange. 
It is only in novels that husband and wife are kept apart 
by those thread-like filaments of feeling of which a cer- 
tain school of feminine romancists are so prodigal. The 
plain English of that matter is, that unless a man is 
absolutely distasteful, or the worn air’s mind is preoccupied, 
marriage is the shortest way to love, and the surest. 


VALEXTIXE STRAXGE. 


199 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“my dear,” said the old lady, “you are erettixg 

ABOUT SOMETHIX G. ” 

To Constance’s mind, Val’s precipitate flight spoke only 
of a longing and a despair which had grown unendurable. 
She saw him lighting for honor’s sake, flying all he held 
dear, and going away into a void world which had no chance 
of solace for him. The true and honest ring of the old 
cavalier’s verse was in her mind, with a meaning in it which 
was new to her, because she felt it echoing in fancy from 
her despairing lover’s soul: 

“ I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved 1 not honor more.” 

He had fled for honor’s sake; and for that, though it 
wounded her sorely, she half deified him. Once before — 
as she knew — he had struggled to escape her charm, and 
had failed. She had trembled to think of that; yet where 
on earth is the woman who would not have been pleased by 
so magnificent a compliment? When she could escape 
from Reginald’s presence, she fled to her own room, and 
cried to think of Val, and his love and courage and forlorn- 
ness. He proved his love by running away from her, and 
with a rare magnanimity, trusted to her to understand and 
forgive; nay, perhaps with a magnanimity rarer still, 
trusted to offend her by the brusquerie of his departure, 
and so turn her heart toward Gerard once again. We who 
are behind the scenes, and know the course of circumstances 
which dictated Val’s flight, can scarcely share her exalted 
notions of his delicacy, his honor, and his courage. But 
howsoever mistaken she might be, her thoughts of him were 
valuable to herself. “ He helps me back to the path of 
honor,” she said, even while she wept his departure. “I 
am pledged to Gerard, and I must be true to my word. I 
must try to love Gerard: that is my only real safeguard.” 
Poor girl! When did ever love go forth in answer to 
commandment? Yet there was this help — that Val had 
put a distance of real reverence between them, and obvious- 
ly meant to return no more until he could return in safety. 


200 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


She was proud, and she was pure-minded, and purely bred, 
and habits of thought and feeling are strong things even 
when assaulted by the Passions. She would not scorn her- 
self so far as to fancy that if once she were safely married 
to Gerard, any man could move her to one unfaithful or 
regretful thought. And now she began to long for that 
union to which she had looked forward hitherto either with 
coldness or with shrinking. 

No word from Gerard. She besieged herself with ques- 
tions as to the meaning of his silence, and could find no 
answer. Her lovely cheek paled with the inward conflict; 
and Miss Lucretia, who knew of nothing but happiness in 
her fortunate niece’s lot, must needs send for a doctor, who 
prescribed a tonic. Constance submitted, hut left his 
medicine untasted; and Miss Lucretia remonstrated, and 
had terrible visions of a premature grave for her beautiful 
niece. 

“My dear Constance,” the old lady said at length, being 
fairly frightened by the girl’s languor and want of appe- 
tite, and the pallor which had taken the place of her late 
lovely bloom, “I must insist — I really must insist upon 
your taking the mixture. ” She poured out a dose, and 
advanced with it, hearing the wine-glass in one hand, and 
in the other, daintily held between finger and thumb, a 
lump of sugar. Constance, too languid to resist, accepted 
the medicine, but refused the sugar. She had almost lost 
all sense of taste in her two or three days of illness, and 
the nauseous bitter scarcely existed for her. TheiT, being 
in a mood so tender and sore that all the fibers of heart 
and mind seemed raw, she began to cry a little at her 
aunt’s caresses. “My dear,” said the old lady, with a 
sudden decision, “there is something on your mind. You 
are fretting about something.” Constance peevishly repu- 
diated this idea. Her temper, naturally even and coldly 
sweet, had, within the last day or two, grown sickly and 
uncertain. “ My dear,” repeated the old lady, with gen- 
tle but firm insistence, “ there is something on your mind. 
Did you expect — him to follow you to town?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Constance. “ I am not fretting. 
I am not quite well. That is all.” 

“No, my dear,” said Miss Lucretia, with chirpy firm- 
ness; “that is not all.” Miss Lucretia was one of those 
dear old ladies who are slow to receive ideas, but who, liav- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 201 

ing by any process absorbed them, bold on to them with 
marvelous firmness. “ You are fretting.” 

“You are very unkind,” retorted Constance, who was 
made more miserable by the fact that she could not 
honorably confide in anybody, and so allowed her misery to 
recoil in anger. But she was so palpably unhappy, that 
Miss Lucretia would not be angry in turn. She only put 
her withered arms about the beautiful neck, and in spite 
of a feeble resistance, drew her niece’s head to her old 
bosom and swayed her to and fro a little. “ I am ungrate- 
ful and wicked, dear aunt,” sobbed the girl, easily melted 
by this voiceless caressing patience. “ You are not unkind, 
are you, dear?” And she looked up with violet eyes full 
of penitence. 

“ Why should I be unkind to anybody who is in trouble?” 
asked Miss Lucretia, still clinging to her point, and seiz- 
ing the chance of putting it toward again. “I have suf- 
fered, and I can sympathize with suffering. Tell me what 
is the matter.” Miss Lucretia was very sentimental, as 
tender-hearted old maiden ladies mostly are, and she had 
a wonderful scent for a love-trouble. Now, “ Ask me no 
questions and I tell no lies,” is not a proverb of the lofty 
sort, but it yet holds a word of warning for those who care 
for wisdom. If you will insist on having the confidence of 
one who is unwilling to impart it, you ought not in charity 
to be too amazed if a half-confidence is imposed upon you, 
or even if you are set upon a wrong scent altogether. 

“He might have written,” murmured Beauty in dis- 
tress, suddenly grown double-faced. Miss Lucretia applied 
this stricture to the conduct of Gerard solely, though, as a 
matter of fact, in Constance’s mind it slid between him 
and Strange, and was aimed at once at both, and neither. 

“ Is that all?” said Aunt Lucretia. “ You little goose!” 
She kissed her fa ir burden patron-like, almost protectingly. 
The ephithet “little” addressed by Miss Lucretia to Con- 
stance was droll. Constance, even whilst laboring under a 
sense of her own duplicity, smiled furtively. “My dear,” 
said the old lady, “ young gentlemen have so many things 
to think of. And did you not tell me that his father had 
announced his desire to make his arrangements for your 
future? I have been making inquiries, my dear, and Mr. 
Chichester, who knows a great many City people, assures 
me that the*affairs of Lumby and Lumby are colossal. That 


202 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


was liis word, my dear, not mine. Colossal. Now, if the 
affairs of a House are justly to he described as colossal — 
and I can repose the most implicit confidence in Mr. Chich- 
ester, who would not exaggerate for the world — it will 
necessarily be a matter of time to make the arrangement 
which Mr. Lumby suggests; and Gerard is probably quite 
absorbed in business, and is waiting until he can lay every- 
thing before you.” 

This explanation was so satisfactory to Lucretia, that she 
dwelt upon it at considerable length, the fact that Lumby 
and Lumby's affairs were colossal appearing to afford her the 
warmest gratification. Constance was too glad to be left 
alone to interrupt her, and she followed the tangled 
threads of her own thought whilst the old lady expounded 
the advantages of being attached to an establishment which 
was colossal, or, as she added savingly, “ had been so de- 
scribed by one accustomed to the contemplation of large 
affairs, and not prone to use the language of exaggeration. ” 
So attractive did this theme prove, that Constance escaped 
all further questioning that night, and made such strenu- 
ous efforts to be cheerful, that they resulted in a real head- 
ache, which kept her in bed until evening next day, and 
brought the doctor again. Reginald, calling, encountered 
the doctor, and asked him what was the matter. The doc- 
tor responded in a roundabout way, as doctors sometimes 
will; but he said enough to make it clear that the case was 
one for which some suppressed excitement was most proba- 
bly answerable. 

“ You had best come no more to Jotunheim, Mr. 
Strange!” said young Jolly to himself as he walked away 
sorrowfully. “You have done mischief enough already, 
Yal — mischief enough already. Girls are a sad trouble! I 
shall be glad to see her safely married to Lumby.” Reg- 
inald felt a considerable sense of responsibility in this mat- 
ter, comfortably mingled with a feeling of diplomatic tri- 
umph. He it was who had discovered the hitch in affairs 
and had banished Strange. He felt proud of his own dis- 
cernment and of the spirit and judgment he had displayed. 
“ Constance will be getting married in a couple of months 
or so,” he told himself, “and Strange will have the good 
sense to stay away for at least that time. And then VaFs 
such a butterfly fellow! He feels all this very keenly, no 
doubt; but hefil forget all about it, and as likely as not 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


203 


bring back a gold-colored bride from the West Indies.” 
Comforted by these reflections, he walked off briskly. The 
shops were lighted up, and the evening sky was clear. The 
air even in London had a prophetic sense of spring in it. 
Where do they come from, those wandering faint per- 
fumed winds which sometimes, for a second merely, greet 
the sense of the wayfarer in London streets, and how do 
they keep their perfume in their journey through the city's 
unnamed odors? Eeginald was a lover of the town rather 
than the country, yet the countrified scent, greeting his 
nostrils as it passed, sent him on his way well pleased. 
Suddenly, in the Regent Street crowd one face flashed out 
on his, and was gone again. He turned and pursued it, 
but failed to overtake it. “ Surely that was Gerard!” he 
said to himself as he passed and cast an uncertain glance 
before and behind him. “ But what a face the fellow 
wore ! Jle looked downright ghastly. I hope there's noth- 
ing the matter. All his people were well enough. The 
pace he was going too! Staring straight before him, and 
plowing on like a madman. ” A minute later he smiled, 
and shook his head with a knowing air. Love's a curious 
fever. He was going up to Chesterfield, and had heard 
that Constance was unwell. I'm getting quite knowing 
about the tender passion. Wonder when my turn's com- 
ing? No; nothing in your line to-day, Cupid. Call 
again." Beguiling time with many naive reflections, he 
walked on, and near the top of the Haymarket found him- 
self entangled with a small boy who made a proffer of an 
evening paper. 

“ O'ny a 'a'p'ny," said the small boy appealingly, shiv- 
ering before him as he walked on. “ Terrible disaster at 
sea, sir. Orful failure in the City. O'ny a' a'p'ny!" The 
words “ failure in the City " struck curiously upon his ear, 
and Gerard's face, seen ten minutes before in Regent 
Street, came back to him in ridiculous association. He 
bought a paper chiefly to dispel that absurd fancy, and un- 
folded it near a tobacconist's window. There he read in 
large letters “ Great City Failure." The words “Lumby 
and Lumby " followed in some connection, but everything 
had suddenly grown misty, and he could not see. He 
stood with a chill sickness creeping over him until his sight 
cleared again, and then read on: “This afternoon, 
Messrs. Lumby and Lumby, the well-known merchants of 


204 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Gresham Street, suspended payment. The liabilities of 
the firm are estimated at half a million.” The street 
seemed to whirl, and he could not think. He held the rod 
of the tobacconists shop-blind for a minute, and then, with 
uncertain step, went on again. Nothing was clear to him, 
within or without. The lights in the shops were hazy, like 
his thoughts; but out of the fog which seemed to have 
fallen on the streets came the face of his friend as he had 
seen it but a while ago, white and haggard and desperate. 
He could read its meaning now. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

LIKE A GHOST REVISITING OLD HAUNTS. 

Walking slowly to his hotel through streets which had 
a half-awakened air about them , as if they, like himself, 
had been turning night into day, Mr. Lumby was conscious 
of a singular sensation. It was as if an elastic cord alter- 
nately tightened and relaxed itself within his head. The 
tightening was terrible; the relaxation brought with it a 
very remarkable feeling of looseness in the brain, as though 
it had lost its boundaries. These curious symptoms re- 
curred slowly at first; but after a little'time the cord began 
to tighten and relax itself at an astonishing pace, and this, 
before he had gone far, resulted in a splitting headache and 
a general sense of stupefaction. “ I have been over-ex- 
cited,” said the merchant to himself as he passed his hand 
across his forehead, and stood for a moment bareheaded in 
the chill morning air. “ Now I come to think of it, I 
have been terribly excited. Yes; it has been an exciting 
time. We have had a near shave, Gerard, a near shave.” 
Rousing himself to a knowledge of the fact that he was 
standing uncovered in the street, arid seeing that a shop-boy 
had paused in the act of taking down shutters to stare at 
him, lie resumed his hat and walked on. He seemed to 
take the matter very calmly now, he thought. A minute 
later last night, and Garling might have been triumphant 
after all. “Yes,” he repeated vaguely, “it was a near 
shave.” The tightening and relaxing cord in his head 
seemed in some inexplicable way to have got hold of that 
phrase — “ a near shave ” with a tug of dreadful pain — a 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


205 


“near shave ” with a sense of dreadful laxness and a loss 
of the brain’s boundaries, as though it were altogether un- 
fenced/ and flowed out loose until the tug came and drew 
it together again with “a near shave” for watchword. 
He was dimly conscious that this physical condition in- 
volved a mental condition which was as unusual as itself. 
The pain in his head was becoming unbearable by the time 
he reached the hotel. Boots, again amazed by his appear- 
ance at this abnormal hour, asked if he could do anything 
for him. 

“A near shave,” said the merchant vaguely. 

“ Shave, sir?” said the Boots. “ Send for barber, sir, 
d’rec’ly, sir.” 

“ No; never mind that,” said Mr. Lumby, awakening as 
if from a dream of fog with a horrible headache and one 
persistent phrase in it. “ Bring me a cup of tea — strong 
tea — unusually strong tea.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the Boots; “d’rec’ly, sir.” That was 
Boots’s formula. “ Looks awful ill,” he thought, looking 
after the merchant. “ Odd thing for an elderly cove like 
him to be out all night two nights running. Ain’t it now? 
And he never was a frisky cove neither — not when he was 
young.” Boots was getting elderly, and remembered Mr. 
Lumby this many a year, and had an interest in him. He 
hurried off now for the tea, and was curious or interested 
enough — not having much upon his hands just then — to 
see it made and to volunteer to take it up himself. He was 
a sort of idealized Boots, and had two other actual Boots 
beneath him. His function at his present time of life con- 
sisted chiefly in telling the way to everywhere, the cab fare 
to everywhere, and the time of starting of all trains at all 
stations — an occupation purely intellectual, and making 
large demands on the mental resources. Mr. Lumby, in 
the eyes of Boots, was as important a person as a prime 
minister, if indeed a prime minister could have come into 
measurable distance with him. The head of a great City 
house, member of Parliament for his county, who might 
have been Lord Mayor as often as Dick Whittington if he 
had chosen, was necessarily a figure in that old-fashioned 
City hostel, where his father and grandfather were remem- 
bered as guests before him. Boots found the great man 
sitting on the bed, and noticed that he looked not only ill, 
but bewildered. 


206 


VALEXTIXE STEAXCtE. 


“Excuse me^ sir,” said the Boots; “ you ain*t like your- 
self at all, sir. Shall I pull your boots off, sir?” He was 
down upon his knees at this task at once. “ Can't ha* 
been a-drinking?” he thought, looking up at the venerable 
face above him. “Been a-watching by a sick-bed,” lie 
concluded, charitably; “ that's more likely. That's where 
he's brought that troubled look from. ” 

“ Give me the tea, if you please,” said the merchant 
with a sudden awakening look. “ I have a very bad head- 
ache. Boots!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I have business,” said the great man rising, tea-cup in 
hand, speaking and looking a little vacantly, “important 
business at — 1 have business” — he was bright -and clear 
again — “ at ten o'clock. I have time for an hour's sleep. 
Call me in an hour, and bring me another cup of strong 
tea. And I will take a hot bath. ”* He drank the tea, and 
passed his hand across his eyes; then knitting his fingers, 
pressed both palms heavily against his forehead, and in that 
attitude walked twice or thrice across the room and back 
again. “In an hour's time. Boots,” he added, as that 
functionary was about to close the door — “not later.” 

Being left alone, he partly undressed, and wrapping him- 
self in a warm dressing-gown, stretched himself on the bed, 
and almost instantly fell asleep. So profound was his 
brief slumber, that when at the end of an hour Boots re- 
turned and, beginning to make preparations for the bath, 
awoke him, Lumby found it difficult to believe that he had 
been left to himself more than a minute. It cost him a 
severe effort to rise; and no sooner was he erect again, than 
the cord within his head began once more to tighten and 
relax itself, and the aching sense of stupefaction returned. 
But a bath, a complete change of clothing, and another 
cup of strong tea, made no bad substitutes for a night's 
sleep, and he went out refreshed to meet Garling. Look- 
ing back at the condition into which he had fallen on first 
entering the street, nearly two hours before, he felt some 
alarm — of a retrospective sort — at the symptoms. “ It 
was no wonder,” he said as he walked briskly on, trying 
to forget his headache or to walk beyond it. “ The strain 
had been very terrible.” He was yet too near the edge of 
the precipice to dare to think much of the terrors he had 
escaped from. “A little more of that,” he told himself. 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 20? 

“ and I might have gone mad. I must be very cool and 
wary of excitement now.” 

He reached the offices, and walked in square and upright 
If he had been closely noticed, it would have been seen 
that his eyes were filmy, and that the flushed color of his 
skin was of a different hue from that healthy redness of 
complexion which his face commonly wore, proof of a pure 
life and a good digestion. It wanted a few minutes of the 
hour, and there were but one or two of the clerks yet arrived. 
These, as the chief went squarely along nodding here and 
there, noticed nothing unusual in him. Nor did any one 
observe any especial change in Garling Jwhen, two or three 
minutes later, and punctual to his hour as ever, he paced 
slowly in, with his hands behind him and his furtive eyes 
bent downward. 

Garling had not meant to be here again. He was not 
an imaginative man by conscious practice, but no man ever 
had great mental powers without the imaginative faculty 
being in strong force amongst- them, and Garling felt like a 
ghost revisiting old haunts. He did not greatly care about 
being defeated, and he thought that curious. It was in 
remarkable contradiction to his sense of almost absolute 
indifference that when, in the course of dressing after his 
employer's departure, he had made preparations for shaving, 
he was compelled to huddle away his razors and look them 
up, in a sudden terror-stricken distrust of his own will. It 
would be too powerful a temptation — not to him, for his 
indifference astonished him — to his hand. That, he noticed 
as a phenomenon hitherto unobserved, or, until now, out- 
side his experience, and thought it would be psychologic- 
ally interesting to know if suicides were ever committed 
in that mood and manner. Once or twice, as a matter of 
mere theory, and not as has having much relation to him- 
self, he wondered whether Lumby had left him any loop- 
hole of escape. He had left him two hours alone. What 
might have been done in two hours? To resecure his 
fraudulent gains, nothing. To escape? — he had nothing to 
escape from. His personal liberty was guaranteed already, 
under certain conditions. One of them was that he should 
present himself at the offices at ten o'clock. He went 
thither automatically, with the sense of a ghostly revisiting 
of old scenes and resumption of old habits accompanying 
him and growing upon him all the way. He had been 


208 


VALEXTIKE STRAHGE. 


sleepless for two nights, and had a feeling of dreaming 
awake, and of walking in an atmosphere of nightmare, 
which might take shape at any moment in such forms as 
only the dreadful hollows of dark night can hold. 

And so, almost exhausted on either side, the two com- 
batants met, again. On Garling's entrance, Mr. Lumby 
arose and locked the door. He had waited in the room 
which the cashier had always used; and now resuming the 
seat from which Garling^s coming had disturbed him, he 
waved his hand to another on the opposite side of the table. 
It was the seat the regular occupant had been in the habit 
of offering to visitors. The cashier had an oddly vivid 
feeling as he took it, of being now a stranger in the place. 
There was no bitterness or defeat in this: it tickled him a 
little, and he suppressed a smile. He was puzzled to define 
the humor of the situation, but it was there, none the less. 
Lumby, for his part, between the racking headache which 
had again attacked him, and the sleepy stupor which d welt 
on all his faculties, had to make an effort to decide within 
himself for what purpose he had called Garling there. 
There was silence for the space of perhaps half a minute. 

“ One thing was omitted when we parted this* morning,” 
said the merchant, coldly, having regained the lost thread 
of his thoughts. “ I have your written confession here, 
and your statement of the funds which lie in your name 
at the bank of Madrid. I want now your order for the 
transference of those funds to the Bank of England, to be 
placed there to the credit of the House.” 

“The sum is a large one,” said Garling, “and they will 
more easily meet the demand if it be made by installments. 
Say fifty thousand now, and fifty thousand fortnightly 
afterward, until the whole is withdrawn. ” 

“Say weekly,” said the merchant. 

“ Very well,” returned Garling. 

“ I shall require you to accompany me to the bank, and 
to have inquiries wired to their agents in Madrid. ” 

“Very well,” said Garling again. 

“ Your being here this morning is a proof that you rec- 
ognize the futility of any attempt to escape until your res- 
toration is completed. Your only safety lies in obedience. 
My pledge will not operate a moment beyond your failure 
or rebellion. ” 

“I understand,” responded Garling. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


209 


tc Prepare the necessary drafts,/ said the merchant, ris- 
ing, “ and bring them to me. Before I leave you, sur- 
render your keys. Be ready to accompany me to the Bank 
by midday. " Garling produced his keys, and suppressing 
an inclination to fling them on the table, laid them grave- 
ly down. Where was the use of a demonstration of rebell- 
ion when he was bound body and soul? Mr. Lumby took 
them up, unlocked the drawer in which he had placed 
Garling^s confession, withdrew that document, and placed 
it in the safe, the cashier watching him all the while with 
wicked furtiveness. Next the merchant laid a heavy hand 
upon the bell. “ Ask Mr. Barnes to come to me,” he said 
to the messenger who answered to the summons. After a 
short pause, enter Mr. Barnes, a placid but keen-looking 
man, with a frame of wiry white hair about a healthy- 
hued face, and calm gray eyes which looked through gold- 
rimmed spectacles. “ Mr. Barnes," said the merchant. 
Mr. Barnes bowed ever so slightly. “ You will take your 
place in this room, if you please, until you receive further 
instructions. Attend to these matters in the first instance," 
— waving a hand toward the heaped documents and letters 
on the table — “ and take to-day the general direction of 
affairs. The matter need not at present be mentioned, 
but Mr. Garling has ceased to hold any connection with 
the firm. " 

Mr. Barnes was like one thunderstruck by this intelligence. 
If he had been told that Jupiter had ceased to have any 
connection with the planetary system, it could not have hit 
him harder. And in that supposititious case there would 
have been the refuge of unbelief to fall back upon, whilst 
here he was bound not to question for a moment. It was 
not a specified part of the merchants undertaking with 
the cashier that his crime should be kept a secret, but there 
were many reasons which made that seem advisable. Lum- 
by ? s own self-esteem went strongly in that direction, and 
the firm had not been accustomed to the employment of 
fraudulent servants. His pride in the probity of the House 
seemed smirched by this associate villainy, and he was not 
wishful to spread such a sentiment in other minds. The 
temporarily appointed cashier being left to his own amaze- 
ment, came out of it gradually, with the general verdict 
of— of something wrong somewhere. 

^Is it your desire that I should send for the necessary 


210 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


forms or myself apply for them?” asked Garling, address- 
ing Mr. Lumby, in his ordinary business tone. 

“As you please,” he answered. “But be ready to ac- 
company me at noon. You will open the letters and attend 
to general business matters, Mr. Barnes.” The merchant 
withdrew into his own room, and closed the sliding panel. 
“ Safe,” he thought, “ quite safe now;” and reaching with 
something of a blinded groping motion for a chair, he sat 
down and turned himself to the table. How horribly his 
head ached. It was well he had been able to keep a clear 
mind so far, and carry the situation through to this point. 
Thinking of what the consequences might have been, but 
for his seemingly accidental resolve to impeach Garling 
without waiting for further discoveries, he . half started 
from his chair once or twice. That awful cord was tight- 
ening and loosening in his head again, and he* could scarcely 
see for jiain. An hour or two more and he would be free 
to rest. The excitement had been too much for him, and 
he would go back to the hotel and sleep it olf. Sleep was 
all he wanted. The strain had been more than he knew 
of at the time, and he was not so young as he had been. 
Thinking thus, he sat with his arms lying heavily on the 
table, and with his head depending downward heavily. 
More and more leaden grew the weight of pain, and at 
length his head drooped on his arms, and he fell asleep 
once more. 


OHAPTEE XXVIII. 

A MESS^TGER FROM THE BANK. 

Garling meanwhile was in the street, walking to the 
Bank. To be free as he was and yet bound as lie was, 
seemed an anomaly. He was going to surrender all his 
evil gains, and he was no worse nor better off than if he 
had lived a life of honesty, except in the estimation of men 
for whom he had no regard. The physical conditions were 
perhaps answerable for a part of liis indifference. He was 
too worn out to feel keenly. 

The usual greetings met him as he walked, and he re- 
sponded to them in his usual way, by bending his bent head 
a little lower. Eminent capitalists remarked that morn- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


211 


mg that Garling was looking worn, and afterward speaking 
in the light of the latter events, called upon other eminent 
capitalists to corroborate their assertions that they had 
made that observation. With no change in his common 
business manner, Garling secured the necessary forms, and 
returning, filled them up at his own table, sitting in the 
visitor's chair and facing the wonder-stricken Mr. Barnes. 
Every now and then the promoted officer glanced at the 
resigned or — dismissed? Surely that last was impossible. 
Garling the long-headed, Garling the keen, the imperious, 
a match for any ten cashiers and managers in the city for 
acumen and knowledge of the world, the pearl of business 
men dismissed? impossible. And Garling's manner set 
that thought at rest. He was just the same as ever, except 
that he had been used to be always so busy, and was now, 
by way of added wonder, idle. 

When he had filled up the necessary forms and had 
everything ready for the merchant's inspection and use, he 
took up the daily paper which lay upon the table and feign- 
ed to read it. So far as he was concerned it was an idle 
feigning,’ for he scarcely had the heart to read a word, but 
he sat there with stupendous patience and self-control and 
made no sign. Mr. Barnes was evidently agitated by ex- 
treme curiosity; and Garling, though he had no particular 
purpose in foiling him, yet found the baffling of that curi- 
osity a help to him. It whiled away the time, and suited 
the purposeless weary venom of his mood to sit there im- 
passive and worry Barnes, and occasionally to meet Barnes's 
secret glance of wonder with one of keen discovery, and to 
make him uncomfortable in that way. But the fire of Re- 
morse, which in some hearts is only to be lighted by fail- 
ure, was already in this pause beginning to burn in him, 
and to bring him a foretaste of its agonies. He had failed ! 
In the very hour of his triumph he had failed! There was 
nine years' work wasted — thrown away. On the very re- 
sults of his fraud, the great House would prosper, for he 
had worked for its prosperity that he might make his 
fraud the larger. Let him care as little as -he might, let 
him be as indifferent as he would, it was ignominious. He 
had failed. 

Failure is always bitter, but it is ten times bitter to the 
detected rogue. And now his own ingratitude began to 
gnaw at him; a crime spurned by his steel-armed con- 


212 


VALENTIHE STEAHGE. 


science this nine years past, crept in through a crevice hi 
the shattered armor and began to gnaw at him. And 
shame wreathed a first cold coil about his heart and sick- 
ened him. Then one thought suddenly took him by the 
very soul. This vengeance came upon him through his 
desertion of his wife and child, and one crime was made a 
whip to scourge another. Was the world a chaos of 
chances, after all, if such a thing as this could be? It was 
clear that Lumby had overheard the colloquy between that 
insolent Yankee and himself; clear that this had excited 
suspicion in his mind; clear that he had that night dis- 
turbed the ledger which held the account of Garling’s first 
year of stewardship, and so had detected him. This 
heaped bitterness on bitterness, and set the sting of his 
long-deadened conscience to bite deeper. Bah! Why dis- 
tress himself about that world-old superstition, long since 
destroyed by philosophy, and contemned by common sense? 
Yet he could not shake off the fear, and it dug at the 
foundations of all his strength; for if it were truly founded, 
he had thrown away more than a rare plot and lost more 
than a great fortune. 

Twelve o’clock at last. 

“Mr. Barnes,” said Garling, with an unconscious use 
of his old habit of command, “be so good as to tell 
Mr. Lumby that it is midday, and that I am ready for 
him.” 

Mr. Barnes, with an unconscious use of his old habit of 
obedience, arose and tapped at the sliding panel. No an- 
swer. He tried to thrust it on one side; but the bolt was 
fastened. He rapped again, more loudly. No answer. 
He went round to the side-door and rapped at that, and 
still receiving no response, essayed to open it, but discovered 
that it also was fastened. 

“ He must have gone out,” said Barnes, returning, “ but 
I did not hear him.” 

“ Nor did I,” returned Garling. So that he performed 
his share of the contract, what did it matter to him whether 
the merchant kept his or left it unkept? If he chose to be 
ruined, let him be ruined. He would want money at the 
Bank soon enough, unless Garling were mistaken, and that 
could not come about very easily. The new cashier and 
the old sat on together until the luncheon hour, when Mr. 
Barnes went out. At two o’clock he returned, and sat 


VALENTINE STEANGE. 213 

down before a new pile of letters. One of these he handed 
to Garling. 

“This concerns you, Mr. Garling,” he said. It was 
Garling's roundabout note to Lumby, returned by the 
Liverpool firm as having been inclosed to them in error. 
“Clumsy fool!” said Garling to himself, not taking time 
to think that it mattered no longer, i ‘ Why not have sent 
it straight on without inclosing it?” Then he smiled bit- 
terly at his own want of apprehension, and absently tore 
the useless fraud across and threw it into the waste-paper 
basket. This futile reminder of all his futile plans stung 
him a little. There were strings enough within him, but 
he would not writhe. Mr. Barnes was looking to see 
whether this odd note had any effect on Garling, but the 
defrauder held himself and gave no sign. When men came 
to know that he was defeated, they should have no chance 
to say that they had seen him shaken by defeat. 

Another hour went by, and Mr. Barnes, at Garling's 
bidding, again rapped at the sliding panel, and again tried 
both it and the door with no result. A new alarm was 
presenting itself to Garling. It was patent that if matters 
went too far, and the firm was shaken, the promise of im- 
munity he held might after all avail him little. lie sat 
thinking uneasily of this for another half-hour, and had 
almost resolved to rise and batter at the door until he re- 
ceived an answer- — for he was certain that the merchant 
had fallen asleep within — when a clerk came hurriedly up 
announcing the arrival of a messenger from the Bank, who 
wished to see either Mr. Lumby himself or Mr. Garling on 
business of importance. Nobody could guess how enor- 
mously important that business was half so well as Gar- 
ling. The ruin he had planned might be coming on 
already — might well have begun even now, and if it fell 
whilst he was in England, nothing could save him. The 
power would have passed from his employer's hands, and 
the promise he had given would not be worth a straw. 

“ Anybody in Number Thirteen?” asked Garling. 

“No, sir,” said the clerk who had brought the message. 

“ Then show the messenger in there.” 

Garling went to meet the Bank messenger. The tale he 
had to tell was brief. The account of the firm was enor- 
mously overdrawn, and checks to a large amount, bearing 
the firm's signature, had been passed in — fortunately not 


214 VALEXTIXE STUAXGE. 

presented for payment. Certain promissory notes also 
were falling due. “We pay in fifty thousand pounds this 
afternoon,” said G aiding. “Mr. Lumby is in town, and 
had made arrangements to meet me at noon to-day for that 
purpose. We shall follow you at once.” 

“We were surprised, sir, at the great drafts you have 
been making lately.” 

“No doubt,” said Garling — “no doubt. Had there 
been any great stress, Mr. Lumby would have transferred 
a portion of his private account. We shall follow directly.” 

The messenger withdrew smilingly. There was no doubt 
about Lumby and Lumby. The senior partners private 
account, swollen year by year for many years past, was 
enough to show their solidity. Still, if Garling could act 
so recklessly as this, there was at least room for other busi- 
ness men to gain a little credit for themselves. There was 
some comfort in thinking that Garling was nol quite im- 
maculate. For one moment, when the messenger had 
gone, Garling stood with a diabolical rebellion in his heart 
and eyes. Fate forced him to rescue the firm for his own 
sake, but he had well-nigh courage and hate enough to 
risk his own ruin and let crash the falling House. No! 
There were still chances in the world even for him. He 
walked swiftly to the door of Lumby 's room and rained 
down blows upon its panels with his clinched hand. Mr. 
Barnes came running into the corridor to ask what was the 
matter, and Garling, seeing that he carried a heavy ruler, 
took it from him and made a very storm of noise. A 
voice answered from within, and the head of the firm, look- 
ing, to Mr. Barnes's wild astonishment, like a drunken 
man, threw open the door. Garling entered the room, 
closed the door in his successor's face, and accosted his 
late employer. 

“ Be quick, or you will be too late. A messenger from 
the Bank has been here to say that the- firm's account is 
overdrawn, with heavy demands to meet.” Crossing the 
room, he shot back the bolt, and threw open the sliding 
panel. “ Mr. Barnes,” he said, cool and calm as ever, 
“ oblige me by sending for a hansom. At once, if you 
please. ” The astounded Barnes, once more shut out by the 
returning of the panel, rang the bell and transmitted 
Garling's order. The merchant facing Garling looked 
dazed and overwhelmed with sleep. “ I have everything in 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 215 

readiness/* said the ex-cashier. “ Come with me — there is 
not a minute to lose.** 

Lumby looked stupidly at his watch. “ A quarter to 
four/* he said heavily. “ What is the matter?** 

“Come with me/* repeated Garling. “ Compose your- 
self. If you go to the bank with such an air as this, the 
town will declare you bankrupt. You look it.** He spoke 
with quiet scorn, not hurried by the pressure of events or 
swayed out of his usual possession of himself. 

“ I have been asleep/* said the merchant. “ What*s the 
matter?** 

“Kuin is the matter!** cried Garling, stirred at last. 
Barnes in the next room heard those awful unbelievable 
words, and dropped into his chair white as a ghost. “ Come 
with me, and wake up by the way.** If they were late, 
Garling would not set his liberty at a pin*s fee. The 
merchant, looking weakly round, took up his hat with a 
shaking hand and began to draw on his gloves. 

“Have you the drafts made out?** he asked. 

“Yes/* said Garling, thrusting them upon him with 
both hands. “Come!** There was a horrible impatience 
on him now, and a fear lest they should lose the hour. He 
had to stifle this hurry and dread, whilst he walked behind 
Lumby through the offices. The merchants aspect awak- 
ened surmises among the clerks, and it was told afterward 
how his hands shook and how pale he was. A hansom 
was standing already at the door, and they both entered. 
Garling gave his instructions to the driver; the man touched 
his horse with his whip, and they started. 

“ There is ample time/* said the merchant to himself, 
consulting his watch again. “I could walk to the bank 
in less than the time we have. ** His face lost its flushed 
and excited look, and the old expression came back into 
his eyes. He drew himself together and crossed his arms upon 
his breast, holding in his right hand the documents which 
meant recovered fortune and an unsoiled name. As his 
mind began to play again, he fathomed the reason of Gar- 
ling*s urgency. “ A curious situation/* he said almost 
complacently. “Was ever scoundrel so anxious to disgorge 
before?** 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


216 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“I AM AFRAID, SIR, IT IS TALKED ABOUT.” 

Cheapside was unusually crowded that afternoon, and 
both men being eager to get on, the impediments to traffic 
exaggerated themselves, and became irritating. Garling 
lifted the little trap in the roof of the cab and snarled at 
the driver “ Drive!” The driver, being also irritated by 
the obstacles he met, snarled back at him, and picking his 
way among cabs, omnibuses, and wagons, cast loose 
anathemas right and left, as boys throw crackers. In a 
little time they got behind an omnibus, and the driver be- 
ing compelled to adapt his speed to that of the vehicle 
before him, broke in a wordy hail-storm on the conductor, 
who, turning upon him a smiling visage, winked slowly and 
laboriously, and condescended no other answer. The cab- 
man, naturally incensed, slanged him with all the eloquence 
of wrath. The omnibus stopped to pick up a stout old 
lady; and the conductor, taking advantage of the pause, 
addressed the driver of the hansom with smooth satire: 
“ You shouldn't want to take the bread out of poor folks' 
mouths, your R'yal Highness. Get down, and let the cab- 
man drive. He's used to it.” 

Garling looked up at the sound of the voice, and saw 
Hiram Search. Hiram, beaming all over with the con- 
sciousness of his own humor, caught Garling's eye at that 
moment, and raised his hat to him with a genial flourish. 
Lumby sat back in the cab with his arms across his breast, 
trying to be calm, but relapsing into his old flurried condi- 
tion — anxious to be in time. The 'bus got into motion 
again, and the cab followed slowly, the cabman swearing 
as terribly as, according to Captain Shandy, our army did 
in Flanders. Hiram, with much apparent interest, de- 
manded to know where he preached on Sundays; and winked 
at Garling, as if to ask him what he thought of that , in the 
way of genteel repartee. There was almost nothing but the 
horse's length between Garling and the destroyer of his 
plans, and to see him there thus insolently gleeful and fa- 
miliar, was more than gall and wormwood. The 'bus be-> 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


217 


ing pulled up very suddenly, the cab-horse's nose almost 
entered at the window. “ Going to Whitechapel?” asked 
Hiram of the driver, sweetly. “ Don't keep us waiting. 
Get in, sir, get in. We'll take care of you,” Having de- 
livered himself of this sally, he winked again at Garling, 
who was by this time half mad with rage, and only held 
himself in by a supreme effort. 

“Hiram!” cried a faint pleading voice from the pave- 
ment, and a hand touched the conductor's arm as he swung 
by his strap, inspecting the crowd with a knowing eye, as if 
he were choosing prize passengers. He turned, and there 
was Mary, looking pale and frightened, and bearing on her 
face the mark of recent tears. Hiram rang his bell to stop 
the omnibus, and leaped to the pavement. Garling saw 
the little figure also, and maddened, feeling that his dead 
wife's vengeance was indeed beginning, in spite of her for- 
giveness. But a second later, or less, the sight of the lit- 
tle satchel Mary carried in her hand banished all other 
things from his mind. He had until that moment forgot- 
ten it as completely as though it had been of no value. The 
shock of detection, the struggle for self-mastery, the shame 
and rage which had crowded on him since he had felt his 
employer's arresting and accusing hand, had left no room 
for the thought of minor troubles. 

“ What is it?” cried Hiram, bending over the worn face. 
“ What is it?” 

“He has left me!” she answered. “The house is 
locked.” Her lips were trembling; and he, forgetting 
where he stood, took both her hands in his, and felt them 
cold. “ I don't know where to go. He said we were going 
to Southampton, and he put me in the train, and left me. ” 

“Left you!” cried Hiram. “Why, there he is!” 

“ Where?” she asked, shrinking to him as if from some 
imagined fear. 

At that moment Garling's hand was laid upon the 
satchel. “Give this to me!” he said hoarsely. “Go home 
— go home !" She held tightly to the bag; but he wrenched 
it from her hand, and returned to the cab. “Drive on!” 
he cried with a terrible execration, standing behind the 
splash-board and facing the driver. The cabman shook 
his head up and down with a countenance in which mute 
appeal against the unreasonableness of this direction was 
blent with scorn and pity. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


218 


“ Wliat is all this?” asked Lumby, as Garling threw him- 
self into the seat again. 

“ What is it?” mocked Garling, gnashing at him. “ Ask 
what it was to-morrow.” 

Lumby looked at him with scornful wonder, not un- 
mixed with fear. “We shall be late,” he said. “Had 
we not better walk?” 

They left the cab together; and Garling snarled to the 
driver to go to the office for payment, and strove, whilst 
Lumby held his arm, to struggle through the crowd. But 
the crowd had on a sudden grown dense. There was a 
deadlock in the horseway, and on the footpath the people 
were crushed together looking at it. The beginning of 
anger, as the wise men said, is like the letting in of waters, 
and Garling was now fairly raging. Having once begun 
to surrender his self-control, he became for the moment 
helpless to control himself at all, and struggled like a mad- 
man. At last they reached the limits of the crowd, and 
found a straight course? before them; when suddenly, loud 
and clear clanged out the clock of Bow Church, striking 
the hour. At that they turned pale faces on each other, 
•and Lumby released Garling's arm. The great bell of 
Banks followed, booming above the roar of the street and 
the general babel of sound only for the ears that, waited for 
it. And in both minds the same imagined sight was pres- 
ent; each saw the image of a closing bank door. 

“It will be known before nightfall,” panted Lumby, 
fixing his haggard eyes on Garling in wild accusation. 

“Why should it?” he responded. “You have every- 
thing in hand, and it will be a passing stroke at the worst. 
Be at the bank by ten o'clock in the morning. ” 

The merchant turned, thrusting the drafts into his 
breast-pocket, and walked back, with bent head, despondent 
face, and heavy heart; and his mechanical steps led him to 
the offices. It was not a difficult thing for Garling to hang 
behind and lose his late employer for a moment in the 
crowd. He was absent from the merchant's thoughts, and 
that made the task still easier. And having lost him for a 
moment, it was the easiest thing in the world to slip into a 
hansom cab outside the block and drive away. Ample need 
to drive away, as matters stood. For a whisper once started 
in the city, would swell ere long into a roar, and in that 
roar he could already hear in fancy his own name. He 


VALENTIKE STRANGE. 


210 


would be gone before the storm could burst. The House 
would weather it easily enough, and within his grinding 
teeth he banned the House. But his own crimes would be 
known, and his defeat. There was the sting he dreaded. 
Before that , he was a coward. He could have borne 
to be spoken of as a successful scoundrel; but to be 
pointed at as a detected rogue, compelled to resign his 
booty, and then scornfully dismissed, would have been un- 
endurable, was unendurable to think of, and had yet to be 
endured. 

There was whispering and putting of heads together in 
the offices of Lumby and Lumby. Barnes sat in Garling’s 
seat, and there was a look of amazed misery upon his face 
which struck all who saw him there. The head of the 
firm had been locked in his own room all day; and after 
the coming of the bank messenger, he had gone out tremu- 
lous and fevered, and had returned as if from a fruitless 
errand, hanging his head, and looking like a ghost. Gar- 
ling, even the impenetrable Garling, had looked worn and 
gray. There was a vague suspicion as to what these por- 
tents might mean, which filled the very air, and made the 
whisperings needless to carry it from mind to mind. And, 
to set on all surmise the seal of dreadful certainty, it was 
known somehow before five o’clock by everybody in the 
place, down to the very messengers, that just before the 
closing of the bank a check had been presented and re- 
turned with the statement that there were no effects to 
meet it. The flying Garling might well have foreseen this 
last disaster. But not everybody in the place knew of this 
open shame to the old craft which had weathered so many 
storms and sailed triumphantly through so much evil 
weather since it had launched one hundred and thirty years 
ago. Hot the master of the ship. Ho man told him as 
yet of that disaster. He sat alone, separated from the 
grieving, faithful Barnes, only by the sliding panel of 
corrugated glass. The time for departure had gone by; 
but Barnes waited, fain to offer consolation, if he had but 
dared, or known how to offer it. At length he went 
round by the corridor and tapped humbly at the door. 
cc Come in,” cried the merchant, in a dejected voice, and 
Barnes entered. 

“ What are your instructions for to-morrow, sir?” asked 
Barnes, 


220 


VALENTINE -STRAKGE. 


“You will hold the same place,” returned his employer, 
looking np at him with a withered smile. “ You may con- 
sider yourself promoted permanently. Where is Carling?” 
he asked suddenly, rising with a startled air. 

“ Mr. Garling has not returned,” answered Barnes, 
“ since you and he went out an hour ago.” 

“'Not returned!” said Lumby, taking one quick step for- 
ward and halting suddenly. “No matter. Mr. Barnes!” 

“ Yes; sir.” 

“ We will go through matters to-morrow, and I shall 
have to place some confidences in you, which I shall rely 
upon you to respect.” 

Barnes’s heart ached. Was it possible Lumby did not 
know that the expected crash was the town’s talk already. 

a We have passed through a grave crisis, which has left 
almost everything disarranged, and there will be work to 
do for weeks to come. We will talk «of these things to- 
morrow. I have had a time of great anxiety, and I am 
tired. ” 

Barnes’s face brightened, and he said eagerly, “ You will 
be able to put things straight again, sir?” 

The merchant looked at him wonderingly. “ What do 
you know about this matter, Mr. Barnes?” There was no 
one to hear their talk, but by instinct he closed the door. 

“ The check presented at the Bank last thing this after- 
noon, sir. It is talked about already. I am told that 
Bawlings & Co., relying on the name of the firm, got it 
cashed privately after it was refused by the Bank. They 
were always very questionable people, sir, Bawlings & Co.” 

“The check,” said the merchant, “ refused this after- 
noon? Why, what is this?” 

“ Is it possible that you don’t know, sir?” cried Barnes. 
“ Bawlings was paid by check yesterday — two, five, five, odd. 
The check was presented this afternoon, and the Bank 
returned it, marked, f No effects.” I am afraid, sir, it is 
talked about.” 

Lumby strode up and down the room, deeply moved by 
this discovery. “ This is bad news, Barnes,” he said, 
“ bad news. I had hoped to escape anything of that sort. 
But it will be all right to-morrow. Be here at the usual 
time in the morning. If you hear any rumor against the 
solidity of the firm, I authorize you to offer the fullest and 
roundest denial. Do you hear? The fullest and roundest 


VALEKTIKE STEAK GE. 22 1 

denial. You shall know all to-morrow. I am too fatigued 
to attend to business now. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, sir,” returned Barnes, and went his way, 
lifted up in spirit, but still puzzled. “If he heard any 
rumor ” — so ran the merchant's words. Rumor? There 
was no rumor, but a downright clamant roar, and wherever 
Barnes went he heard it. Wherever he heard it, he denied 
it; as a matter of personal knowledge, he denied it; being 
personally in the full confidence of the firm, he assured 
assailants right and left that there was nothing in it. And 
as when wind and tide go contrary ways there is a greater 
tumult than when both go together, this authoritative 
contradiction made the roar the louder, and spread it 
wider. 

Lumby, left alone, raised his face toward the skylight 
in a sort of passionate exultation and triumph for a mo- 
ment, and dropped it again in anguish. The House was 
saved; Heaven had been merciful, villainy had been 
discomfited, and the House was saved; but the good old 
name was soiled. The British merchant found a doubt 
upon his name as intolerable as the ermine finds a spot 
upon his fur. Never a breath upon the name until to-day, 
and now it was soiled — soiled! How could the return of a 
check from such a house fail to be talked of? That aw- 
ful cord began to tighten and loosen in his brain again, 
and his eyes grew hot and his hands clammy. He entered 
the cashier's room, intending to place the drafts in the 
safe, and then go home to his hotel and send for a physi- 
cian. But having opened the safe, the confession Garling 
. had written lay before him, and he must needs take it 
j up and look at the rogue's balance-sheet at the end. From 
\ it he referred to the drafts, to see if between them they 
made up the sum set down there. Next, after standing 
for a while irresolute, he drew the gigantic ledger from its 
place, and laying it on the table, turned to the leaf on 
which he had first fixed the fraud, and compared the pen- 
ciled marks he had made upon the margin with Garling's 
first entry. The two exactly tallied. He stooped above 
the book a moment, holding the drafts and the confession 
in his hands, then dropped them on the broad ruled leaves, 
and knitting his fingers, pressed both palms above his fore- 
head, and took a step or two across the room and back 
again. There was a hunted feeling in his mind, a hurry 


222 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


and confusion, a dim sense that any moment might bring 
shipwreck, that there were things to do, which, being done, 
would avert all chance of mischief; hut like a man in a 
nightmare, he could only grope in thought, and everything 
was blind and dark. What was the fear that threatened 
him? Where was the way of safety? If this hideous pain 
would only let him think a while! He reeled a little, and 
stretching out hands, caught one side of the great ledger 
and steadied himself by it. The cord in his head was 
growing tenser, and the fear that followed him drew 
nearer. Tenser grew the cord, tenser, tenser, until at last 
it snapped, and the merchant, with one blind stagger side- 
ways, closed the ledger with unconscious hands and fell 
huddled on the floor. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

SHORN OE WEALTH AND SHORN OF ALL. 

The strong spring sunshine lay, at random broadcast, 
on sea and shore, and the great spring wind came roaring 
like the voice of a lusty giant. There was scarce a cloud 
in the sky, and scarce a cloud -in happy Gerard’s mind. 
Stout Roland, feeling the spring in his veins, caracoled 
hither and thither with arched neck and mincing feet; and 
Gerard felt all the horse’s joy, and in the pauses of the 
ride lifted up his voice and sung for gladness, at the eager 
wind and the wide sunshine and the hope of half an hour 
hence. He was riding to see Constance, and that of itself 
was enough; and besides, Gerard was one of those men to 
whom riding is the most delightful of all physical pleasures. 
So, with Roland curveting and prancing and making a 
mighty pretense of scorn at all things — with a tender meas- 
ured fineness in every motion the while — Gerard came up 
to the lodge-gates of the Grange, and called for the lodge- 
keeper with a voice of jollity. Out she came, shading her 
eyes from the bright light, an old woman, who had kept 
the lodge for the old family. 

“ They be all gone to town. Muster Lumby,” said- the 
old woman. 

“ Gone to town?” repeated Gerard in a voice of disbelief, 

^ Yes, sir,” said the old lady, “ all the family,” 


VALENTINE ‘ STRANGE. 223 

Gerard sat without reply for one dismal minute, and 
then turned away. 

A happy lover, who has come 
To look on her that loves him well, 

Who lights and rings the gate-way bell, 

And learns her gone and far from home. 

He saddens ; all the magic light 
Dies off at once from bower and hall, 

Ahd all the place is dark, and all 
The chambers emptied of delight. 

He hung his head on the way back. There was no pleas- 
ure in the keen wind and bright sunshine on the homeward 
ride. Home reached, he found a note, just delivered by 
one of the Grange servants. It came from Constance, and 
ran thus: 

“Dear Gerard, — My father and Reginald are both 
going to town, and since I can not be left in this great 
house alone, I am to go with them, and be taken to my 
aunt Lucretia^s. You will not forget to write to me. We 
shall be away for at least a week. Yours truly, 

“Constance.” 

The note was cool enough, but all Constance^ missives 
had been cool, and so Gerard felt the absence of no accus- 
tomed warmth. Yet none the less the brief iciness chilled 
him, and he was puzzled by the command to write, and by 
the absence of an address to write to. This was the first 
he had heard of Aunt Lucretia, and he knew no more of 
her whereabouts than the note told him. He had a reti- 
cence about writing to Constance through her father, 
whose address he knew; and he felt, with a proud sense of 
undeserved injury, that if she had of purpose aforethought 
omitted her address, he would wait until she sent it to him. 
The bright spring hours began to go heavily. Yal Strange 
had mysteriously disappeared, and Gerard was lonely and 
altogether ill at ease, until on Thursday morning came a 
telegram from the office of the firm, under the hand of Mr. 
Barnes: “Please come to town by first train. Make no 
delay. ” 

“Your father has been away four days, Gerard,” said 
Mr. Lumby, “ and has never written me a line. That is 


224 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


very unusual, and it makes me a little anxious. You must 
tell him to write at once." 

The call to town revived Gerard’s spirits. He was going 
to have a fortune put into his hands, and that meant free- 
dom to marry as soon as Constance could be persuaded. 

“ All right, mother," he answered lightly, kissing her. 
“ I won’t forget. Good-bye, Milly. Get ready," he added 
with a compound smile, in which a most hang-dog aspect 
blended comically with a beaming joyousness — “get ready 
for your orange blossoms. " Milly nodded gayly from the 
hall; the young fellow got into the dog-cart beside the 
groom, and waving his hand, drove away. Pleasant 
thoughts were with him on his journey, and his spirits 
seemed to leap the higher for their late depression, as a 
branch released swings upward. His little bitterness about 
Constance was all dispelled; and as he rode through Lon- 
don streets toward the offices, he whistled like the mavis. 
Looks are not easy to define, or Gerard might have read 
pity in the face of the very porter at the doors, and pity 
again in the face of elderly J ohnson at his desk. 

“ Good-morning, Johnson," said Gerard, cheerily. “ Is 
my father here?" 

“No, sir," said the old clerk. “Mr. Lionel and Mr. 
George are upstairs." 

Mr. Lionel and Mr. George were the junior partners, 
Gerard’s cousins. There was a marked sadness on the old 
man’s brow, and a melancholy quaver in his voice. 

“ How glum you Londoners are, Johnson," said the 
young fellow. “Why, if you meet a plowman in the 
country you hear him whistling — out of tune, most likely, 
but still whistling. They catch the habit from the birds, 
perhaps. But all you people look as if you were assisting 
at a funeral. ’’ 

“This way, sir," said Johnson. “Allow me." He led 
the way upstairs, turning half round to Gerard with a re- 
spectful bend. In the room which had been Garling’s, sat 
Mr. Barnes and the junior partners. 

“Good-day, George," said Gerard, cheerily. “Good- 
day, Lionel. How d’ye do, Barnes? All here to help me 
into El Dorado, I suppose. Where’s the governor?" 

The cousins shook hands with him solemnly, and Barnes 
bowed with saddened visage. 

“Well, upon my word," said Gerard, looking from one 


VALEKTINE STRAKGE. 


225 


to the other, “you're a cheerful lot, to be sure!” As he 
looked, his own face caught something of the shadow which 
lay on theirs. 

“Sit down,” said his cousin Lionel. “We are in 
trouble here. Mr. Barnes, tell him all you know.” 

“First of all,” said Gerard, anxiously, looking from one 
to another, “ where is my father?” 

“At his hotel,” said Cousin George. “ He is not well; 
in fact, he is seriously unwell; but don't be afraid for him.. 
Sit down. Tell what you know, Barnes. ” 

At that, Barnes told all he knew, as we know it already; 
and Gerard listened amazed, almost beyond amazement. 

“In the course of the evening,” pursued Barnes, “I met 
Mr. Lionel and Mr. George. They had heard of the un- 
fortunate circumstance of the check, and I gave them your 
father's assurance that everything would be right to-day. 
We were all naturally anxious, and we arranged to meet 
here at nine o'clock this morning — an hour earlier than 
usual. Mr. Lionel and Mr. George will tell you that they 
called at your father's hotel, and could hear no news of 
him.” 

“I called,” said Lionel, breaking in gravely, “at Gar- 
ling's place, to see if he knew anything. They told me he 
was away — the people at the shop beneath the rooms he 
lived in — he had gone away with a lady on Tuesday night.” 

“ With a lady?” cried Gerard. 

“A young lady,” returned Cousin Lionel. “He had 
taken an extra room for her some days before, and spoke 
of her as his daughter. She called him her father, and 
their joint story was credited.” 

Gerard sunk back in his chair, feeling like a man in a 
nightmare. 

Barnes went on with his story, from which it appeared 
that the three, reaching the offices at the appointed hour, 
found the night-porter and his wife in a terrible flutter of 
alarm and excitement, having two hours before discovered 
the head of the firm insensible upon the floor of that room. 

“ It was probably providential,” said Barnes, in conclu- 
sion, “ that, in falling, he had slightly wounded himself, 
and had lost a little blood. I am bound to say that the watch- 
man and his wife seem to have acted with great prompti- 
tude. The man ran at once for a surgeon. Your father 
was removed to his hotel, a physician was sent for, and 


226 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


everything that skill could suggest had been done before 
our arrival." 

Gerard saw despair confronting him, and but an hour 
ago he had been so happy. 

“ We have done what we could here," said George Lumby, 
rising and folding his arms across a burly chest. “We 
have turned over the whole of our private balances to the 
credit of the firm. That is but a drop in the ocean," he 
added, sorrowfully; “but" — lifting his head and striding 
across the room — “it may help us after all." 

“We conjecture," said Lionel, “that your father knows 
something we do not know, and we think that if we can 
tide over a day or two, he may save us. George and I have 
given instructions to realize on all stock we hold, and we 
may make a stand. But the check yesterday, and Garling's 
flight, and your father's sudden illness, have an ugly look. 
We are talked about everywhere, and we expect to be 
pressed; The small fry have been at us already, and have 
been paid. We shall stand out as long as we can. 

The very prosperity of the firm had led the partners to 
their ruin. It had been so profitable to pour their profits 
anew into that great reservoir, that they had invested but 
little outside it, and now the treasures of the reservoir had 
sunk, as into some great subterranean cavern. 

All day the ominous City talk went on, and men spoke 
of the great House as doomed. It was believed that Gar- 
ling had got away with prodigious sums, and so his pre- 
eminence amongst keen fellows remained undisputed still. 
There were some adventurous spirits who were willing to 
take long odds against the breakage of the firm; and sport- 
ive clerks offered the market betting on the event, as if it 
had been a sort of City Derby. Once that day the firm was 
hit hard ;’ and the junior partners took up a great bill of 
which, until then, they had known nothing, and waited 
with what stoicism they had for the next blow to fall. 
Gerard, feeling as if his heart had been one great ache, sat 
down and wrote a letter to his mother, disguising from her 
the ills that had befallen, and striving to write lightly, 
whilst his heart sunk over every word like lead. “ Do not 
expect to hear from either of us for a day or two," he 
wrote, “for we are most prodigiously busy, and have no 
news which you unbusiness-like country people would care 
to hear." 






VALEKTIKE STRANGE. 


227 

Mrs. Lumby, reading this next day, took it for a jocular 
affectation of the cares of commerce worn for her amuse- 
ment by the new partner, and she and Milly had a laugh 
over it. But a day or two actually going by, and she 
hearing no more, she wired a message of inquiry to the 
offices. 

“ You must answer it,” said George Lumby, who took it 
down to the hotel to Gerard. “ She will be up here other- 
wise. How is he?” nodding at the door of the sick-room. 
Gerard had taken the dressing-room outside the chamber 
in which his father lay, and stayed there day and night. 

“ He knows nobody,” said Gerard sadly. “ Smiles at 
his fingers like a child, when he awakes. ” 

“ Have you spoken to him?” 

“Yes. He knows nobody. The doctor says he is out 
of danger, boldiiy.” 

“ He fears for his mind? Permanently?” 

“I am afraid so,” answered Gerard with a dreary sigh. 

“He may go at any hour,” said George gloomily — “ at 
any hour.” Gerard answered only by another sign. “We 
are all in the same boat, Gerard. Wire to your mother, 
and tell her not to be alarmed, and then write to-night. ” 

“Yes, yes,” answered Gerard; and his cousin went sadly 
away again. At that moment the door was rapped by a 
waiter, who brought in letters for Gerard, redirected and 
sent on from the Hall by Milly. He looked at them ab- 
sently, and seeing that one came from Constance, he 
opened it and read it. She wrote as coolly as ever, but 
bade him come and see her if he should come to town, and 
gave her address this time. Icily brief as it was, the note 
would have made him happy a day or two before; and now, 
having read it, he laid it to his breast with a great sob, and 
hung his head, as if to hide from the mere daylight the 
blinding tears in his eyes. But recovering himself after 
awhile, he answered his mother's message, and afterward 
sat down and wrote her a cheerful letter, asking her to 
come to London, and telling her that his father had been 
unwell, but was recovering now. “She will think it a 
slight matter,” he thought, “and why should she be 
troubled, poor soul, before her time? She will be troubled 
enough, when she knows.” ' 

When she came next day with Milly, she found her hus- 
band sitting up in bed, with a pinched and vacant look 


228 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


upon liis face. He knew nobody, but smiled at her — an 
awful smile — and talked disjointedly of tilings that bad 
happened years ago. Then Gerard discovered that bis 
kindly meant deceb was cruel: for the shock well-nigli cost 
his mother her wits, and for an hour or two she was pale 
and helpless and as cold as marble. But a great fit of cry- 
ing coming to her aid, she recovered herself, and sat down 
beside her husband's bed; and slie and Milly watched there 
to the exclusion of all others but Gerard and the doctors. 
They told her nothing of the affairs of the house, thinking 
one trouble enough at a time. Gerard sent no word to 
Constance, but waited like a man condemned until the last 
stroke should fall. It fell on Tuesday, a week and a day 
after the elder Lumby's arrival in town. The two junior 
partners came together in the dusk of the afternoon, and 
lie saw the doom of the House in their faces. 

“It is all over," said the elder of the two in a common- 
place voice. 

“Yes," said the other. “We closed the doors at half- 
past two. We heard it cried by the newsboys in the streets 
as we came here. " 

Gerard took up his hat and made as if to leave the 
room, but there was such a look upon his face that the two 
cousins, exchanging a swift glance, stepped between him 
and the door, and each laid a friendly hand upon him. 
“ Where are you going, Gerard?" asked George. 

He looked at them, first at one and then at the other, and 
reading their fear, shook his head, and tried to smile. “ I 
am going to see my sweetheart," said the simple Gerard, 
choking down a sob. “ I must tell her what has hajipened, 
and say good-bye. She can't marry a pauper; and 1 don't 
want her to learn the news from the papers. I sha'n't be 
long away. You can keep it from my mother for a time. 
She has enough to bear. " 

“ They know it in the hotel," said George. “ The very 
waiters know it. We are all in the same boat, Gerard." 

They shook hands sadly, as men before now have shaken 
hands in shipwreck, waiting for the shock and the plunge, 
and Gerard passed into the streets, and walked, deep be- 
neath the waters of despair. How he reached the little 
house in Chesterfield Street, he never knew; but he stood 
at last before the door, and asked quietly for Miss Jolly, 
and sent in his card and waited. TV) the day of his death 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


229 


he will not forget that waiting. It seemed long, long be- 
fore the little parlor-maid returned and marshaled him up- 
stairs and into Constance's presence. She came with a 
languid grace to meet him, and held out her hand; but at 
the sight of his face, paused, and looked at him with great- 
ening eyes. 

“I have come to say good-bye," he said. His heart 
was like ice in his breast. 

“ Good-bye?" she answered. “Gerard! What do you 
mean?" She fancied she read something like a threat in 
his manner. Looks are hard to read, and the reader is 
likely to see himself reflected in their characters. She was 
fresh from thinking of Yal Strange. Of what was Gerard 
thinking? 

“Yes, "he answered; “I am here to say good-bye. You 
can't marry a pauper." His voice was strained and harsh, 
and he spoke with difficulty. “ The House has failed. I 
have come to tell you so, and to give you back your free- 
dom. " 

“ The House has failed. The firm?" 

“The firm of Lumby and Lumby is bankrupt," he re- 
sponded. “I won't detain you," he added helplessly, not 
knowing what words found their way to his lips. “ Good- 
bye!" With that he turned, and suddenly flung both arms 
abroad with the ultimate gesture of despair, and dropped 
them, heavily, at his sides. What could she say? What 
comfort could she offer? What consolation could reach 
him? “Work and hope, and I will wait." Ah, she was 
not free to say that. She might have said it to the man she 
loved, and have dared her father's opposition, and poverty, 
and the cankering cares of waiting years, as many a maid 
had done before her for a true man's sake. But she had no 
such balm for Gerard, who being shorn of wealth was shorn 
of all. 

Perhaps in some inmost corner of his heart he waited 
for some command which should give him life again. Per- 
haps, at the sight of his despair, she half wished that she 
could give it. She touched him timidly on the sleeve, awed 
by the silence of his grief, for she knew that he had loved 
her well, and she guessed at something of his miseries. At 
that touch he turned, and for one passionate moment held 
her in his arms ; then, with a cry like that of some wild 


230 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


creature in extreme pain, lie released her, and rushed from 
the room and from the house. 

******* 

Constance, thus left alone, was filled with many strug- 
gling emotions, amongst which it would not have been easy 
for any philosopher to discern the uppermost. Gerard 
had half frightened her by the wildness of his farewell; 
and she would* have been less than woman had she been 
unmelted by his grief. His trouble, as it referred to her, 
naturally touched her less than did the loss of his fortune. 
“ Me?” she thought (and not unwisely, for she judged from 
what she knew), “ he will grieve because he has lost me, 
perhaps for a month or two; but he will feel the loss of his 
fortune all his life. '' She could not, struggle as she might, 
disguise from herself the fact that she was pleased to be 
free. She had never greatly, cared for him. Since that 
first day when the warmth of his ardor had a little touched 
her heart, he had never raised a thrill in her. And since 
then Val Strange had risen on the horizon of her life, and 
in spite of herself she had glided into such a love for him 
as she never guessed or dreamed before. Yes; she was 
sorry for Gerard, but she was pleased to be free. And yet 
Yal had gone away, resolutely bent on curing himself, and 
to that end had set an inexorable distance between himself 
and her, and might stay away for years. Why, since it 
was to come, could not Gerard's misfortune have come a 
week sooner? She hated herself for that cruel thought; 
but it was there, and she could not drive it from her. 
Poor Gerard! She respected him greatly, and liked him 
coldly; and if she had been an empress with gifts to give, 
she would have given him a new fortune, and have taken 
joy in the gift. She could scarcely have been sorrier for 
his loss if he had been her brother. But he had many 
friends, and amongst them Gerard would do very well. 
Anything like the bitterness of downright poverty was of 
course impossible for him. He could never come to that. 

Gerard pacing lonely in the gaslit streets, gave the lost 
fortune little thought. There was grief enough for him in 
his mother's grief, in his father's helplessness, in his own 
loss of love, and hope of love. He had always been so 
used to money that the prospect of poverty could take no 
hold upon him. Only those who have felt the grip of 
poverty know so much as how to dread it. In the midst of 


valentine strange. 


231 


his afflictions, poverty seemed likely to be the lightest, and 
it was certainly the only one amongst them which a heart 
at once sound and gentle could at first sight scorn. It was 
burned into him that he had come away without one word 
of farewell from Constance. That seemed hard. But she 
had never made any great pretense at caring for him, and 
his thoughts began to be bitter. Yet poor Gerard was too 
simply noble to hold that mood long, and by and by he be- 
gan to defend her, and to yearn over her, and to pray that 
whatever came to him she might be happy. He even tried 
to take pleasure in the belief that she had not loved him, 
on the ground that she would not grieve at his leaving her; 
but at that his sorely tried heart rebelled. He would like 
her to feel some grief at that — a little. 

Some thirty years ago, the Sage of Chelsea preached one 
dogma, worded thus — “By all means, at all times consume 
your own smoke." For the carriage of this dogma into 
practical every-day working Gerard was peculiarly fitted. 
He said nothing of his personal griefs to any man or wom- 
an. He avoided all mention of them to his mother even, 
and resolutely and heroically fought them down. But the 
conflict wore him thin and pale; and in this midst of all 
their distresses, Milly and his mother had no keener grief 
than this of Gerard's. The days went on, the great bank- 
ruptcy was noised abroad, and other lesser bankruptcies 
followed it in due course. Garling's vast fraud widened 
and broadened in its consequences, as great crimes will ; 
and people who had never heard of him, and never did 
hear of him, went hungry because of him. The properties 
of the firm were sold at auction; the very desk at which old 
Johnson had sat these fifty years was knocked down to the 
highest bidder before the veteran's sorrowing eyes; the very 
ledgers went for waste paper, all but the latest; the prem- 
ises themselves were . sold, realizing a price so vast that 
creditors reading it grew easier in their minds; the senior 
partner's private properties were impounded with the rest, 
stocks and shares and balance at the banker's; and Lumby 
Hall was in the market. 

Then it came out, when the panic was over, that there 
was enough for everybody, even the lawyers, and that there 
was a little to be saved after all. But in the middle of the 
distresses, and in this pale gleam of joy which followed 
them, the head of the great wrecked house of Lumby and 


232 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Lumby sat like a cliild, with no more than a eliild's joys 
and a child's sorrows, smiling at the sunlight playing on 
his wall, or whimpering to he lonely in the .dusk. His 
memory was a ruin. He knew nobody. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

ALL DAY, HIRAM LOOKED ABOUT FOR CHANCES, AND NEXT 
MORNING HE SET OUT AFOOT IN PURSUIT OF EMPLOY- 
MENT. 

“ Mr. Search,” said the official of that Omnibus Com- 
pany who controlled Hiram’s destinies, “ after to-day, your 
services will not be required. ” 

“ Oh?” said Hiram. “ I reckon Fve got a right to ask 
what that's for.” 

“ You have twice appointed a substitute without leave, 
and you were yesterday two hours absent from your post 
without even appointing a substitute. The drivers tell me 
that the block in Clieapside was your fault, and yours 
only. ” 

“ He's may be right, mister,” responded the conductor. 
“But it won't happen again.” 

“I'll take care of that,” said the official person. 

“ It'll suit me better to hold on awhile,” said Hiram, 
“ if you don't mind. It's rather an awkward corner to get 
thrown off at, this is. Give me another trial.” 

“We shall not require your services after to-day,” re- 
peated the official dryly. 

“ Then I must try to get along without yourn,” respond- 
ed Hiram. “ 'Bus conducting ain't half such a berth as 
the Prince of Wales's, is it?” 

“ It's a pity,” said the official, shaking his head at Hi- 
ram, a little mollified by the discharge of his own thunder- 
bolt, “that you don't stick at your work. Search. You're 
a smart fellow, and a sober fellow; and if you'd only stick, 
you'd do.” 

“ There was a minister had a nigger once, mister,” re- 
turned Hiram, “ and whenever he misbehaved, the parson 
used to cowhide him. And while he cowliided he'd take a 
text and preach, just so as Peter shouldn't find the thing 
monotonous. One day Peter turns round and kind o' 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


233 


makes an appeal. ' If you. flog, flog/ says he; 'and if you 
preach, preach; but don’t flog and preach too, at the same 
time/ ” 

" Oh, yes," said the official, shaking his head again at 
Hiram with a humorous aspect; " I know that yarn. I’ve 
heard it before. Search — I’ve heard it before." 

"Well, now," said Hiram, with a propitiatory twinkle 
in his eye, "I go with Peter. Don’t give me the saok and 
lecture me. Look here! You take the sack back again, 
and lecture me till Fm good. It won’t take long." 

"No, Search, no," returned the unbending official. 
"It can’t be overlooked. Here’s my last word: if you like 
to come back in a week’s time. I’ll give you another 
chance — perhaps. ’’ Therewith he turned and left the de- 
linquent. 

"That won’t do," said Hiram, addressing himself em- 
phatically. " There’s a chance a minute opening some- 
where. I can’t afford to wait a week for one. There’s the 
little gell to be provided for. It’s kind of you to offer me 
a holiday, mister, but I can’t stop to take it. Here goes 
the whole population of this planet hot-foot, full tilt, run- 
ning fit to split from dawn to sunset every day, after the 
day’s rations, with some exalted parties looking on serene 
and smilin’ at the racket — Dukes and a Prince or tew; but 
it’s no use for me to sit down alongside the superior human 
article. Perhaps T could smile at the racket as pretty as 
any of ’em; but that wouldn’t find me two day’s rations 
every day; and I must run with the ruck, I reckon, and 
kick and elber right and left, and run cunning. Very 
well, then. Bank, ma’am! Whitechapel, mister! This 
way for the Bank. Keg’lar load o’ capitalists to-day. Get 
along!" 

All day, Hiram looked about for chances, and next 
morning he set out afoot in pursuit of employment. After 
many intricate wanderings, many inquiries, and as many 
rebuffs, he came, in a retired tumble-down square midway 
between Fleet Street and Holborn, upon an announcement 
that compositors were wanted. Anything dingier than the 
dingy placard which bade Hiram inquire within, anything 
dirtier than the windows, anything filthier and more rickety 
than the stairs, he had not seen in London. Upon one 
landing, a barrel of printer’s ink had . leaked, and having 
trodden upon the sticky mass, he jflowed his way upstairs 


234 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


as a fly goes over tliat humane invention the “ catch-’em- 
alive.” An exaggerated smell of damp newspaper — the 
distinctive odor which attaches to an ill- ventilated print- 
ing-office — saluted the applicant’s nostrils; and a hot blast 
of air, such as a furnace might be supposed to breathe if 
its digestive apparatus were thoroughly diseased, swept at 
him as he opened a swinging door at the head of the stairs. 
Right and left at double frames, pale men and weedy lads 
faced each other, picking up types as if for bare life. In 
the streets, the spring sunshine had been bright; but here, 
above every double frame hung a cob-webbed gas-bracket, 
patched with pasted paper here and there, to cure the leak- 
age of gas, which nevertheless smelled horribly; and from 
each bracket sprung two flaring lights, with flimsy sheets 
of green paper hung before them on a contrivance of wire, 
to shelter the worker’s eyes from the glare. No man or 
boy looked up from his work to remark the new-comer; 
but after an uncertain pause of perhaps a minute, a sallow, 
melancholy looking man in a ragged frock-coat and a soiled 
apron, appeared at another door, and approaching Hiram, 
asked his business. 

“ You want compositors?” asked Hiram. 

“Yes,” said the other. 

“I want work.” 

“Very well,” said the melancholy-looking man; “you 
can begin at once, if you like.” He led the way to a 
frame on which reposed a pair of empty cases. “All 
this matter is for distribution. It’s all minion, and all one 
font. ” Saying this, he pointed to a galley-rack on which 
rested many columns of half-washed type, and betook him- 
self to the other end of the room. 

“ Say,” said Hiram to a pale and long-drawn lad at the 
next case, “is there a sink here anywhere?” The lad 
nodded his head sideways, and went on with his work. 
Hiram lifted a galley and carried it to the sink, and hav- 
ing washed the type thoroughly, took up a handful and 
began to throw it into the case. His fingers had lost the 
feel of custom, and he was awkward at first; but he re- 
covered the art by and by, and went ahead at a great rate. 
“Work pretty regular here?” he asked his neighbor. 

“ Yes,” said he, [[nodding vigorously at the case and work- 
ing head and shoulders with unnecessary ardor. 

“Piece or ’stab?” inquired Hiram laconically. The in- 


/ 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


235 


quiry being translated meant: “ Are we paid by results, or 
at settled rate?” 9 Stab is compositors' English for estab- 
lished, and is even, by that system of compression in vogue 
amongst them, made to signify a certain fixed wage. In 
their working hours, compositors are the most taciturn of 
all working-people. 

“ Haven't you asked?” inquired the youth, turning his 
eyes on Hiram for the first time. 

“No,” said Hiram. The pale lad, having once looked 
at him, seemed determined to see as much of him as he 
conveniently could at one eyeful. The new-comer had 
turned back the cuffs of his shirt over coat sleeves of new 
black cloth; and the cuffs were white, and were, as their 
position proxed, actually attached to an under garment. 
Hiram's collar, presumably belonging to the same garment, 
was spotless, his boots were well made and new. His well- 
brushed glossy stove-pipe hat hung on a peg behind him. 
The pale lad gaped at this show of respectability. 

“I don't fancy you are one of our sort,” he said, meekly. 

“ No?” said Hiram, rattling the type into the boxes, 
growing pretty full by this time. “Why?” 

“It's a turn-over house,” returned the lad. “We're all 
improvers here.” 

“ That's a moral blessing in its way,” responded Hiram, 
to whom the lad's phrases bore no meaning. “ Ain't it, 
now?” 

The pale youth smiled drearily r in answer to Hiram's 
glance. “We're turn- over apprentices," he explained. 
“ We've never served our time, and we don't belong to the 
Union; so we get only paid half -rates.” 

“ What's that?” said Hiram. 

“Why,” said the lad, “it's sevenpence halfpenny a 
thousand for minion. That's the regular pay. They give 
us threepence three-farthings here. At the end of the 
week you put in a bill at full prices, and they halve it. 
Suppose you put in a bill for two pounds, you'll get a sov- 
ereign.” 

Hiram gave vent to a long faint whistle, and having at 
that moment cleared his hand, walked over to the melan- 
choly-looking man in the soiled apron. 

“Look here, mister,” said he, and repeated the lad's 
statement. “Is that so?” The melancholy man in the 
soiled apron said it was. “ So,” said Hiram, “you reckon 


236 


VALEKTIKE STRANGE. 


on half-starving this mean crowd, as an mdoocement to 
them to cut the throat of the trade they starve by." The 
melancholy man said he might put it that way if he liked. 
“ Well," responded Hiram, “when a man's hard up, he 
gets into singular company. You don't seem to thrive, and 
there's a kind of saddened aspect about the hull kyhoot. I 
don't make one of this ragged regiment, mister. No, sir, 
I do not. I am not afraid to work. I could always beard 
Employment in his den, and Labor in its hall! But my 
intellec'," added Hiram, with a gracious smile, “is not yet 
sufficiently overcooked to permit me to live with this pecul- 
iar enterprise. Good-afternoon, sir." 

“ I thought it wouldn't suit you," said the pale youth, 
who had given Hiram the character of the place. “ They 
ain't a high-spirited lot as comes here." He rubbed his 
nose with the back of of his composing-stick as he made 
this reflection, and cast a longing look at the case of type 
which Hiram had left partly filled. His own one was 
almost empty. 

“You can take that," said Hiram, adjusting his cuffs 
and reaching for his hat. The lad thanked him, and 
changed the position of the cases; and Hiram departed, 
without being noticed much by anybody. “ An hour and 
a half wasted," he thought as he went down the little inky 
stairs and emerged upon the streets again. “ I'm game to 
run as cunning as I can," said Hiram, drawing a long 
breath of pure air; “ but I'll do nothing to be ashamed of. 
Me and my little gell can starve, without cutting other 
people's throats to be allowed to do it." 

For the first .time since that adventurous summer day on 
which he had met Gerard Lumby, the sun went down with- 
out his having earned a half-penny. This reflection sad- 
dened him, and he went home footsore and weary. Sitting 
alone, and smoking a pipe over the ashes of the fire which 
had that morning boiled his tea and cooked his rasher of 
bacon, he resolved on a house-to-house visitation through 
the business realms of London, in search of employment. 
The stupendous nature of that inquisition half frightened 
him at first; but on reflection, he adopted the method as 
being, after all, the only practical one. “ I can't adver- 
tise," he said between the whiffs of his pipe, “because I 
haven't got the money; and if I had, what could I adver- 
tise for? ‘To the General Public — A Young Mast 


YALEKTIKE STRAKGE. 


237 


who knows his way about, and has traveled, is open to em- 
ployment as clerk, scenic artist, newspaper editor, chair- 
mender, compositor, architect, or sandwich-man. Berth 
in clothes-store good enough to begin with. No reasonable 
offer refused. Ojien to negotiate with bill-stickers, railway 
companies, members of Parliament, and the }3ublic gen- 
erally/ They'd laff at that," said Hiram with a dreary 
sadness. “ In this effete old empire, a man seems to think 
he's done his duty if he's learned enough of one craft to help 
him cheat somebody into believing that he can work at it. 
They bind him prentice to learn bricklaying and if he's 
got a head on him at all, he knows all they can teach him 
in as many days as they make him spend years. They 
reckon on taking seven years to teach a man to stick types 
on end, and they won't let him earn a living at it till that 
seven years is wasted. I'm a fairish smith, and I'm a 
decent wheelwright, and there ain't a better cabinet-maker 
in London; but because I haven't wasted seven years apiece 
in learning to use hammer, spokeshave, and chisel, I'm a 
trade pariah. That is what is the matter with me — I'm a 
trade pariah. And I call it too cruel ridiculous, that be- 
cause I'm smarter than ten of these fellers put together, 
I'm offered half-wages." He knocked the ashes from his 
pipe, and laid it down on the hob tenderly. It was the 
identical pipe he had vainly striven to light in the lane ten 
miles from Brierham, and he had an affection for it. “ No," 
he continued, half aloud: “I can't advertise; and what's 
the good of answering! I suppose I can't have spent less 
than two pound at that since I've been in London; and I 
never had so much as one reply. There was that clerk- 
ship I went for personally. Shall I ever forget it? A street 
full of respectable applicants, and every man-jack of 'em 
with testimonials enough to fill a butcher's basket. I shall 
get slanged a good deal on this journey; I shall be a de- 
cided noosance to a heap of Christian people. But where 
there's an advertisement, I'm one of five hundred; and here 
at least I shall have a chance of lighting on somebody who 
wants me, and hasn't had time to advertise for me and bring 
the other four hundred and ninety-nine cavorting around. 
It's the other four hundred and ninety-nine that spoils 
things. Five hundred rats, and only one wanted to take 
charge of the candle-store. Five hundred redskins, and 
one white scalp. Five hundred frying-pans and only one 


238 


VALEKTIKE STKAKGE. 


fire." A mere moonbeam of a smile illuminated bis long 
countenance. “ I ajn becomin' figgerative," be said, 
ie and that says, * Lively, Hiram/ Y or/d like another fill, 
wouldn't you?" apostrophizing his pipe. “ You look hun- 
gry. You shall have it.” He filled his pipe again, and 
having lit it, began slowly to undress. This was his first 
night in new lodgings. Mary was disposed of for the time 
being; and it had been determined between them that she 
should try on the morrow to recover her old situation. 
They were going to get married, for pure economy's sake, 
so soon as that became practicable. The depressing in- 
fluence which attaches to new places was upon him. He 
was and had been for years a wanderer, and yet he felt it 
for once keenly. There are some who never quite master 
that depression. I have but once spent an unbroken three 
months under one roof since I was three-and-twenty, and 
yet a new abode is always dismal for the first half hour. 
The tables are unfriendly; the chairs have a stand-off air; 
the grave voice of the clock is the voice of a stranger; and 
the very fire shows new faces. 

It is not necessary that a man should have been bred like 
Bayard to be as chivalrous as he; and Hiram, sitting in his 
shirt-sleeves on the bedside, and pulling solemnly and 
slowly at the well-blacked clay, was as full of manly tender- 
ness and stout resolve as he could hold. “ It makes a man 
sort of fearful and thin-skinned to have a gell to look 
after," soliloquized our philosophic hero. “ Can't help 
thinking what she'd do if I broke down. The city gets a 
man under, too. Hiram! Mister Search! Think of what 
depends on you, and hold your head up and step out firm. 
That's better. Now, then; into bed you go. Pleasant 
dreams, Hiram. Good-night, darlin'. Sleep my pretty 
little gell, sleep! sleep, and forget your troubles. If I was 
a cherub, you shouldn't hurt for want of watching." And 
Hiram, fairly worn, blew out his candle, laid down the well- 
blacked clay gingerly on the floor, turned over, and, not 
unmindful of his Maker, fell asleep. 

He was out early in the morning, and began his round. 
Busy people declined to waste a moment on him. 
Others with more leisure questioned him, and sent 
him on again. Some were civil, some were not. It made 
no difference to him; he went out at one door and in at 
another, and ran through his formula with unfailing pluck 


YALEOTIKE STKAKGE. 


239 


and cheerfulness. That went on all day from nine in the 
morning till seven in the evening, and nothing came of it 
but weariness. He crept home footsore and with a little 
failing at the heart. If you have “ No ” thrown at your 
head three hundred times running in a single day, you are 
likely to grow disheartened. Next morning he began 
again, and prosecuted his weary task till noon. That frozen 
monosyllable barred every door with a barrier like ice, until 
at last he came upon a restaurateur in a little street off the 
Strand, who offered him a berth as a waiter on condition 
that he made a deposit of two pounds and gave a satis- 
factory reference. He gave a reference to the official who 
had dismissed him, went home and pawned everything but 
one suit of clothes and his linen, raised the money, and on 
the following day entered on his new business. 

He was not in an exalted sphere of life; but it began in 
a very short time to pay better than omnibus-conducting. 
The restaurant was not long opened, and was by no means 
a high-class concern; but it began in its own way to thrive, 
and Hiram thrived with it. It was in the man's nature to 
take a pride in whatever he did; and before he had been in 
the new line a fortnight, he performed conjuring tricks 
with knives, forks, and plates that were wonderful to 
look at. Like the proverbial good actor, who lives his 
part, Hiram threw himself head and heels into the charac- 
ter; and as soon as the funds would allow it, he blossomed 
forth in an evening suit and a stiff white necktie. The 
proprietor rallied him a little, and the regular customers 
chaffed him mildly, on this butterfly leap from the 
chrysalis garb. He smiled blandly, and the owner of the 
place began to think he had picked up a jewel. Hiram, as 
the business of the place improved, received something con- 
siderable in the way of tips, and began once more to lay by 
money. Then out came from his fictionary uncle's care 
Gerald's half-sovereign, and this, being drilled, was sus- 
pended to the watch-chain which once again hung across 
Hiram's waistcoat. 

He had scarce been invested more than a month, when 
one day a young gentleman entered sadly, and seating him- 
self, called for a chop and a pint of bitter beer. From the 
moment of his entry, Hiram fixed his gaze upon him, and 
when he sat down, walked to his side and awaited his order 
with a countenance of many emotions. When the order, 


240 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


given with bent head, came to Hiram's ears, his face 
changed ludicrously. He passed on the demand for a chop 
with a private signal to the cook to do his best; and having 
set the pint measure beside the new-comer, he rattled about 
with knives and forks and water-bottle, keeping a corner 
of his eye on the guest meanwhile. If his object was to in- 
duce him to raise his head, it failed; but when he brought 
the chop, he succeeded v in getting a near look at the 
stranger's face. There was no other customer there at the 
moment; and Hiram watched him with a look of evident 
pity and amazement. The stranger eat his simple meal, 
and paid for it, and went his way without a glance at the 
waiter who found him so deeply interesting. Being left to 
his own devices, Hiram took up a copy of “The Times" 
and turned to the advertising columns. 

“ Yes," he said under his breath; “there's no mistake. 
Eh, dear, now! * Lumby Hall,' " he read, “ ‘ ten miles from 
Brierham, four from Colham, five from Dene.' That's 
where I saw him first and last. Great smash in the city. 
Supposed gigantic frauds by Mr. Garling. Lumby and 
Lumby. Same name. Comes from same part of the 
country. Could afford to chuck half-sovereigns about in 
them clays. Come down to take his meals in a shanty like 
this. And the man that's ruined him is the father of my 
little gell. Eh, dear!" And Hiram sighed most piteously, 
and sat for ten minutes in tragic amaze, until an order for 
broiled kidneys awoke him from his stupor. 

It was indeed Gerard Lumby whom Hiram Search had 
seen; but Hiram, though he guessed rightly in most re- 
spects, had somewhat overleaped the truth in his belief that 
Gerard was yet so poor that a few pence spent upon 
luncheon made a difference to him. Amongst diis friends 
— and this episode, since it led to nothing but his meeting 
with Hiram, may briefly here be mentioned and dismissed 
— was one who had been a fellow of his college, and now, 
having married, and thereby resigned his fellowship, had 
associated himself with a daily journal. There was then, 
as usual, a disturbance in the east of Europe, the unspeak- 
able Turk and the equally unspeakable Christian of those 
parts being occupied in recriminatory raids and murders; 
and Gerard's friend sought him out when he heard of the 
failure of the firm, and offered him employment as a special 
correspondent. Gerard leaped at this proposal; and it was 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


241 


to discuss it, that he had come into the street in which the 
new restaurant was situate. The newspaper offices were 
only half a dozen doors below, on the same side. 

The business not having come to a head between the 
Eastern unspeakables, the journey Gerard meditated w^as 
delayed ; but he went to the offices daily, and almost daily 
lunched at the new restaurant. In the simplicity of his 
mind, Hiram imagined that this was the principal, per- 
haps the only, meal of the young man’s day. To suit his 
fallen fortunes, poor Gerard had sold all his jewelry, and 
he had become neglectful of his dress. He was not sloven- 
ly, but the old precision and nicety had vanished. In the 
old days, he had carried his head a thought too proudly. 
He hung it now habitually, and his face was jmle. It was 
no wonder, for his heart was alternate frost and fire; and 
what with his father’s loss of all manly faculty, and his 
mother’s grief, and his own loss of love and fortune all at 
one fell swoop, such cankering miseries gnawed the poor 
fellow’s soul as were almost too much for humanity to bear. 
Hiram began to see him daily, with here and there the 
pause of a day between- To Hiram’s imagination, Gerard’s 
occasional absences meant — no dinner. The tough-tender 
Yankee began to yearn over him and to sorrow for him. 
He was too delicate — In a word, he was too much a gentle- 
man — to claim acquaintance with his benefactor in these 
days of fallen fortune; but one day, when Gerard — after a 
two days’ absence this time — took his usual chop and drank 
water instead of beer for some no-reason, and neglected to 
leave behind him the twopence with which he had com- 
monly rewarded the waiter’s service, Hiram leaped further 
along the mistaken road, and jumped to the conclusion 
that Mr. Gerard Lumby and actual famine were beginning 
to make acquaintance with each other. So, begging and 
obtaining an hour’s leave of absence, the mistaken one 
slipped out after Gerard, and dogged him home to cham- 
bers in the Temple, where he was staying with an old col- 
lege chum now called to the bar. Hiram saw him enter 
by means of a latch-key, and went back again. But that 
night he wrote upon a bit of writing-paper in a clerkly 
hand the singular words: “ From a true and grateful friend, 
who remembers a kindness. ” He folded up in the paper a 
half-crown, and — dropped it into the letter-box, addressed 
to Gerard Lumby, Esq. 


242 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Gerard dined, or lunched, more plenteously next day, 
and took cheese. Hiram served him almost with tears in 
his eyes, and that night dropped another half-crown- into 
the letter-box, ticketed, “From the same.” To Gerardos 
sore heart these well-intentioned but unnecessary gifts were 
bitter and enraging, and he asked himself again and again 
who the base enemy could be who chose so cruel a method 
of humiliating him in . his misery. Sitting in his friend's 
rooms alone that night, with his own aching thoughts for 
company, he heard a stealthy footstep ascend the stair. 
Wrathfully expectant, he arose, drew back the latch of the 
door, and waited. The third package dropped by the un- 
known hand fell with a dull little clang into the letter-box. 
Gerard dashed the door open, and seized a dark, retreating 
figure. 

“ Come in,” he said, in low tones that boded no good to 
the captive. “Let me have a look at you.” The lithe 
Hiram struggled like an eel; but the vise-like grip only 
tightened on him; and, strong as the Yankee was, the ath- 
letic Briton walked him into the room, and had him liatless 
under the gaslight, whilst you could say “ Jack Bobinson.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A BLUE FOOLSCAP DOCUMENT, WRITTEN IN A STIFF AND 
LEGIBLE HAND, LAY ON THE PAGE BEFORE HIM. 

On a bright spring evening, Yal Strange's yacht dropped 
anchor in sight of Welbeck Head and Brierham spire; and 
four stout fellows pulled him ashore, and landed him in a 
little bay four miles from home. He knew the country; 
and leaving the waste sea-beach behind him, struck into 
the fields, and strolled through green meadows and by fast- 
greening boughs toward Brierham. The very earth was 
odorous, and the air like balm. Welbeck Head, half a 
dozen miles to the left, looked in the light of the setting- 
sun as if it were built of burnished bronze; and in its hol- 
lows lay shadows so purple and so liquid, that one might 
well have fancied every cranny .of the vast headland filled 
with wine. The western air was refulgent gold; the eastern 
air a pearly rose; and the zenith, a blue so soft and dreamy, 
it drew the soul as well as the eye toward it, and led out all 


VALEHTItfE STBAKGE. 


243 


the observer^ nature in vain sweet hopes and fancies. Val 
surrendered himself to Fate, or in surrendering, had created 
Fate. Who cared? But he was not at ease. Regret and 
dissatisfaction lurked at the bottom of all his thoughts. 
There are times- when all things resemble the little book 
which the angel gave to John in Patmos, and the utmost 
sweetness has its bitter undertaste and aftertaste. Eye and 
ear and nostril drank delight as he walked; but the- soul 
sat tremulous in the midst of joy, and read half-veiled 
prophecies of sorrow and disaster. The heart of man is 
deceitful above all things. Yal had contrived to turn him- 
self from false friend and dishonest lover into knight-de- 
liverer. It would be virtue in Constance to break her en- 
gagement with Gerard — 

Since therein she would evitate and shun 

A thousand irreligious cursed hours 

\Yhich forced marriage would have brought upon her. 

YaPs acquaintance with Shakespeare could not let him 
miss an excuse so forcibly put, and so pat to his own de- 
sires. And it was virtue in him also to persuade her to 
break that bond. He persuaded himself that he had been 
a coward in running away, and that it was a duty toward 
all three concerned — toward Constance and Gerard and 
himself to hinder a union in which on one side there was 
no love and no possibility of love. Let a man set himself 
to the task of self -persuasion — let him gag Conscience, and 
lend his ear to his own souPs sophistry, and he can credit 
anything. Val is not the only man who has transmuted 
scoundrelism into heroism, or deified his own desire and set 
it up as duty. 

He was not by any means sure of his plans; but he was 
resolved on enduring no delay. He would find a means of 
communicating with Constance, and he would leave no 
effort unmade to deliver her from the possibility of a love- 
less marriage. He was willing to face contumely, to en- 
dure his friend's hatred and scorn, to know that hard 
things would be said of him by men whose judgment he 
valued. And since he quailed from these things in his 
inmost heart, he found it heroism to face them, and was no 
more a fool or a villain in that self-deceit than ninety-nine 
out of a hundred might be if they set their minds that way. 
“So carpe cliem, Juan, carpe, carpe Ah, the note of 


244 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


joy rings false in the voice of the most mournful of all 
British singers, and in the silence that follows may steal 
the tones of an older and a wiser poet: “Rejoice, oh, 
young man. . . hut remember!” 

Walking in such mood as I have striven to indicate, Yal 
came in the course of half an hour or thereabouts upon 
that ugly landscape-spoiling property of his, the paper- 
mill; and there, in the act of mounting his dog-cart, was 
Henderson the manager. Henderson, catching sight of 
Yal, descended and awaited his coming. 

“The sight of you is good for sore eyes, Mr. Strange,” 
said he. “You are looking wonderfully well, sir.” And 
indeed Val was mahogany colored with his six weeks of 
sea-breezes. 

“ Any news in this dull quarter of the world?” he asked. 

The manager quite stared at him. “ News, sir? Haven't 
you heard?” 

“ Heard what ?” 

“You don't mean to say,” said Henderson, “that you 
know nothing of what has happened to anybody down 
here?” 

“ But I do mean to say it,” Yal returned. “ What has 
happened? Whose cat is dead?” For Henderson was a 
marvelous retailer of marvels which had in them very little 
of the wonderful for other people. 

“ Lumby Hall and the Park are in the market, to begin 
with,” responded the manager, with something of the air 
of one who justifies himself. 

Val turned pale under his bronze, and repeated the 
words questioningly : “ Lumby Hall and Park are in the 
market?” 

“ The House has gone to pieces. The cashier. Snarling — 
no, Garling — that was his name — bolted with half a mill- 
ion, so it's said, and everything has gone under the ham- 
mer. ” 

This news shook the hearer from head to foot, and he 
held on by the rail of the dog-cart, and cast so stricken a 
look on Henderson that the worthy man was alarmed, and 
insisted on Val entering the office and sitting down. 

“ Fd no idea, sir,” he said, “ that the news would affect 
you so. Let me offer you a little whisky. IPs just a sam- 
ple that I had sent in yesterday. ” He opened a cupboard, 
and produced a black bottle and a wine-glass. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


345 


“ No!" said Val, waving his hand against it. “ It was 
so horribly sudden, I was shocked. What has become of — 
of Gerard Lumby? He was going to be married, poor 
fellow. ” 

“Yes,” said Henderson, almost with a relish. “He 
was going to wed that handsome lass at the Grange, Mr. 
Jolly’s daughter. That’s all broken off now, of course. 
The losses have driven poor old Mr. Lumby out'"'of his 
senses; and they tell me he just sits like a baby, and counts 
his fingers, and they feed him like a child. ” 

“Horrible!” said Val with a shudder. He felt as if he 
had planned to break into a house, and heaven’s lightning 
had scattered it to ruin and ashes at his feet. All this 
news had become quite an old story to Henderson and his 
compeers. The interest had faded out, and it was a pleas- 
ure now to renew it by telling the tale to one who was so 
deeply moved by it. He flowed on, therefore, and told all 
he knew, and perhaps a trifle more. 

“ And curiously enough,” he added, when his tale was 
done, “ we’ve got a memento of the great commercial dis- 
aster here. It came this very afternoon; and if you’ll come 
this way. I’ll show it to you.” 

Yal followed him, incurious. His mind was still dead- 
ened by the shock of thoughts which had assailed him at 
the first. Constance was free, and his guilty plan — for he 
knew its guilt in the searching light of that moment — was 
no longer needed. And Gerard, his friend, had not only 
lost the love Val had meant to steal from him — but had 
lost all with her — father, fortune, home. Val Strange 
trembled at that swift and awful blow, and loathed the 
thought of his own falsity to honor. 

The manager led the way from the office to the working 
chambers of the mill, and halted in a great storehouse 
with rough-cast walls, where tons of waste-paper lay heaped 
to the ceiliing — vast piles of newspaper returns; whole 
libraries of worthless books torn from their bindings, and 
ranged in level rows or thrown in heaps; pyramids of coarse 
packing-papers, pyramids of lawyers’ briefs, parliamentary 
returns, blue-books, contractors’ specifications — a thousand 
things that had served their turn, or swerved aside from it 
and fallen useless; and at the edge of the waste, a column 
of books of unusual size. The binding had been torn 


246 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


from these, and the backs were a tangle of broken string 
and cracked strips of glue. 

“ These/" said the manager, “ are Lumby and Lumby"s 
ledgers. I got them for the mill for a mere trifle."" There 
was a rough table on strong trestles in the room; and 
Henderson, lifting one of the great volumes, laid it down 
and turned over the leaves. “ Splendid stuff,"" he said, 
with the paper between his finger and thumb. “ They had 
everything made to last; and you"d have thought the con- 
cern as solid as the hills. "" 

Val absently took a leaf of the great ledger and turned 
it over, and looked at the methodical neat entries, column 
after column. The action and the glance were alike auto- 
matic. He had no thought of what he saw. Mr. Hender- 
son swelled himself a little with the natural dignity of the 
showman, and looked on, pleased with his discovery and 
with its effect upon his employer. A workman in search 
of somebody in authority, looked into the building, and 
seeing the manager there, told him of some slight matter 
that had gone wrong. Henderson with more alacrity than 
common, departed to set the something right and Val was 
left alone. Turning over the great stiff pages absently, he 
came upon some papers crushed between the leaves, and 
mechanically smoothing them, uttered a sudden exclama- 
tion. Next he snatched up these papers, and read them at 
a glance, and laid them down again with his head whirling. 
A wild surprise and a terrible temptation reached his mind 
together, for the papers he had discovered were no other 
than the drafts made out by Garling in surrender of his 
booty. A blue foolscap document, written in a stiff and 
legible hand, lay on the page before him, and VaFs eyes 
swept over these words, clear as print: 

“ In consideration of the receipt of a written promise to 
refrain from criminal proceedings, this day handed to me 
by Gerard Horatio Lumby, I the undersigned, make con- 
fession that I have robbed the firm of Lumby and Lumby, 
of 107 Gresham Street, of the sum of two hundred and 
fifth-three thousand two hundred pounds, and do now make 
full and complete restitution of the same. 

“Edward Garling."" 

Henderson"s voice sounded outside, giving final instruc- 
tions about that trifling something wrong which had called 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


247 


him away; and Yah with an impulse for which he did not 
care to account, swiftly folded the papers and transferred 
them to his breast-pocket. His ready instinct told him 
that ^hile ignorant as to how the “full and complete 
restitution " was to be made, he nevertheless perhaps held 
in his possession the key to recovered fortune .for his rival 
and his friend. Constance was free; but how long might 
she remain free if he handed these all-important papers at 
once to their rightful owners? The temptation which as- 
sailed him in the instant of discovery was not to destroy 
the papers — for that would have been too gross a crime for 
him to contemplate — but to reserve them until he had 
made good his own ground with Constance. In the mere 
fraction of a second, his mind seemed to take in every side 
of the case. Gerard had already lost Constance, and by 
this time had at least recognized the fact, if he had not yet 
begun to grow reconciled to it. If he, Valentine Strange, 
succeeded Gerard Lumby as her affianced husband, Gerard 
Lumby would be no worse off than now; and if, thereafter, 
he handed over the discovered papers, Gerard would have 
every reason, comparatively, to be happy. If, on the other 
hand, he did what his honorable and native instinct 
prompted him to do, and gave up the papers at once, was 
there not a chance that Gerard would reassert his claim, 
and a chance that the claim would be allowed? Whilst all 
this and more raged through his mind, Henderson re- 
turned. 

“You're really looking ill, Mr. Strange," he said, sur- 
prised at VaFs aspect. “You'd better let me drive you 
home. " 

No, Val protested; he was well enough — a little startled, 
that was all. He would walk across the fields. And so, 
with a brief leave-taking, he was going, when he bethought 
him of a precautionary measure. “ Don't you have those 
ledgers meddled with, Henderson," he said. “I should 
like to look at them. Leave them as they are." Hender- 
son promised. Mr. Strange's desire was an understandable 
whim enough. Val was keen and quick, and had some- 
thing of that faculty which makes successful scoundrels 
and great generals; in things that really interested him, 
he left nothing essential undone. He had not yet decided 
whether or not to be an utter knave; and if the papers 
had afterward to be rediscovered, it would be well to have 


248 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


a reasonable place in which to rediscover them. What 
better place could there be than that in which they had 
been originally discovered? But he had not gone a hun- 
dred yards away from the mill, when he returned. Hen- 
derson was again mounting his dog-cart when Val came 
running back to him. 

“ On second thoughts, Henderson, don 4; keep those 
ledgers. Use them up at once. I can’t bear to see them 
again. Use them up first thing to-morrow.” 

Again Henderson promised, and again Mr. Strange’s de- 
sire was an understandable whim enough. How should 
the manager guess the fight in his employer’s soul which 
resulted in those contradictory orders? Val strode away 
across the fields rapidly, lialf-fearing lest he should rescind 
the order. So weak was he to resist the tempest which 
tossed him, that before he had again reached the place at 
which he had turned back, he threw himself on chance to 
know whether he should finally keep or destroy the ledgers. 
On that point for the moment he contrived to pivot the 
greater question — whether he should here and now play 
the man, or jilay the knave. “ Heads, I keep them — 
Tail’s, they go.” He drew a few loose coins from his 
pocket. Heads predominated! Fate seemed to tempt 
him; but a sudden revulsion at the thought that honor 
should be at the mercy of so poor a chance, sent him along 
the road again, and he left the great ledgers doomed be- 
hind him. 

The domestics of his house were used to his comings and 
goings, and he found all things in tolerable readiness. An 
hour or two after his arrival, dinner w T as served up, and he 
sat down to it with little appetite, and toyed with the 
dishes one after another, and sent them away scarcely 
tasted. He had not yet made up his mind, and could not; 
but over a bottle of Closde Vougeot and a cigar in his own 
especial den, he completed the perusal of Garling’s entire 
narrative, and so made himself familiar with the whole 
circumstances of the case. In that narrative he scarcely 
knew whether to wonder most at the insolent completeness 
of the disclosure, or the amazing patience and cunning of 
‘ the fraud. “ My crime,” “ my fraud,” “ my system of em- 
bezzlement,” and kindred phrases, were used with a scorn 
for periphrasis, and an absence of an affectation of repent- 
ance so complete, that the reader’s admiration and detesta- 


VALEXTIXE STRAXGE. 


249 


tion of the writer seemed to grow side by side. “I was 
first led,” wrote Garling, “ to the contemplation of my 
crime by the ridiculous laxity which left all things in my 
power. ” 

“Ah!” sighed Yah laying down the manuscript after > 
rereading the opening passages, and that amongst them. 
“How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill 
deeds done!” He filled his glass again, and sat staring at 
the fire. There was a vinous glow at his heart, a vinous 
brightness in his brain. “ I can’t associate myself,” said 
he proudly, “with a villain of that type. If I hold these 
papers an hour longer than I can help, I shall identify 
myself with Mr. Garling; an association I have no mind 
for. ” His decision was made at last. Gerard should have 
his own again, and Val would rely on the justice of Fort- 
une to repay him for this sacrifice to honor. In the glow- 
ing warmth with which the generous vintage filled him, he ' 
had an easy presage of victory. Why should he be afraid 
of Lumby? he asked himself. Constance had never cared 
for the fellow, but had been persuaded into the match be- 
cause it was socially a good one. She had cared for him 
— he knew it, though she had not confessed it, and had in- 
deed in self-defense denied it. Taking it altogether, he, 
Val Strange, had acted very well, and was still acting very 
well. Lumby could find no reasonable fault with him 
now. He was genuinely sorry for Gerard’s misfortune, and 
in his own sense of security he began to be genuinely glad 
that he could put a partial end to them. And indeed a 
quarter of a million sterling might well console a man for 
the loss of a prospective wife. Hot in his own case, of 
course. That would have been an absurd suggestion. Val, 
never having felt the want of money, had a noble scorn for 
it. He threw it about with a splendid recklessness and 
- royal prodigality, though he never spent a quarter of his 
** income, being innocent of expensive vices, and despising 
the card-table and the turf. But Gerard was poor, and 
the return of the money would compensate for much to 
him. And be that as it might, by all rules of love Val 
had a perfect right to try his fortune now. 

He rang the bell and the old butler answered the sum- 
mons. “My yacht,” said Yal, “is lying about three 
miles this side of Daffin Head. Supposing this ” — indicat- 
ing the bottle — “to be the paper-mill, and this” — indicat- 


25 0 


YALE^TI^E STKAKGE. 


in g a cigar-box — “ to be our present position, the yacht is 
here;” and he set down his wine-glass in a straight line be- 
yond the bottle. “ As straight beyond the mill as you can 
go. You understand?” 

“Yes,- sir,” said the butler. “ It’ll be in Quadross 
Bay.” 

“ That's it,” said Yal. “ I had forgotten the name of 
the place. Send one of the fellows to the yacht in the 
morning to tell Bichards to pack my things and come up 
at once. Have him here by half-past nine at the* latest. 
I am going up to town in the morning.” 

“Very good, sir,” returned the butler, and retired. 

Jim the groom, being charged with the commission, saw 
his way to an unauthorized enjoyment; and putting dog- 
cart and horse together at once, drove to a certain hostel 
within half a mile of the little bay, and there meeting 
some of the yacht's crew, went aboard with them, and held 
high revel until one in the morning, by which time his 
master, with a comfortable sense of virtue on him, had just 
turned into bed. Jim the groom reappeared in due time 
with Yal's body-servant and divers portmanteaus; and away 
went Val, body-servant, portmanteaus, and all, up to Lon- 
don, by earliest train from Brierham. Station. He had 
learned from the butler that the Grange, like the Hall, w r as 
empty. He had no immediate means of learning Con- 
stance's whereabouts, but that could not be a difficult mat- 
ter in London. Her father and her brother w r ere probably 
at the Albany as usual, and there was Miss Lucretia to 
apply to. But first, with a feeling of magnanimity and 
honesty in his bosom which was refreshing after his late 
self-accusings,‘ he sought his lawyer, and from him obtained 
the name and address of the legal adviser of the late firm 
of Lumby and Lumby. The legal adviser, who was a 
high-dried little man, extremely old, and dry and wrinkled, 
■was by no means so sanguine of the restoration of the 
property as Yal had been. 

“Mr. G aiding,” he said, in explanation of his doubts, 
“has gone to Spain. The police can tell you so much 
about him. It is very probable that this is so much waste 
paper after all, giving us merely the melancholy satisfac- 
tion of knowing the truth. The English and continental 
journals gave news of the failure of the firm, and of Gar- 
ling's flight, with some supposed enormous gains; and it is 


VALENTINE STIiANGE. 251 

quite on the cards that he may have renewed his hold upon 
the money — quite on the cards. ” 

At this view, Val became so evidently depressed, that 
the lawyer proposed to set an end to doubt at once by a 
visit to the Bank and a telegraphed inquiry to the bankers 
at Madrid. Yal assenting eagerly, the high-dried little 
man got into a cab and drove away with him without loss 
of time. Then again Yal produced the wonderful papers 
and told his tale. The manager, having heard it through 
with great astonishment, wired at once, and promised to 
dispatch a messenger with tidings^of the answer. Val ar- 
ranged to call upon the lawyer at the hour of six, and 
went upon his own inquiries. First to the Albany, where 
he learned nothing. Mr. Jolly and his son were out of 
town, and since they had left no instructions for the for- 
warding of letters, were not expected to be long away. 
Next he repaired to Chesterfield Street, Mayfair, where 
Miss Lucretia's house was found deserted. Yal knocked 
and rang, refusing to believe that his quest had ended in* a 
no-thoroughfare; and at last, disheartened, got into his 
cab again, and was driven to his own chambers. Emerg- 
ing thence, he took another hansom, and drove wildly 
about town, calling on everybody he knew to whom Regi- 
nald was known. He gained no more by this move than 
by the others. Streets were “ up ” on all hands; the faces 
of the houses were given up to the painters, and the pave- 
ments were planted thickly with scaffoldings and ladders. 
Nearly everybody was out of town, and Val met nobody 
who could give him the information he wished for. By 
the time at which his unavailing search was ended, he was 
due at the lawyers, and hastened thither. 

“ No answer from Spain, yet,” said the lawyer in re- 
sponse to his inquiries. “I have received a message from 
the manager, who promised to send me the news when it 
comes. It will be forwarded to him at his private resi- 
dence, and he will wire to me. Will you wait?” 

Val answered in the affirmative, and sat down. The 
minutes glided slowly by, more slowly than he had ever 
known them glide. Twilight began to fall; and the lamp- 
lighter, visible from the window, traveled round the square, 
leaving the lamps agleam behind him. The clerks had 
gone already; and the lawyer, having lit the gas, and drawn 
down the blinds, sat with his parchment face bent over a 


252 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


parchment deed, and read and read and read, making 
pencil-notes in a book at liis side, but never looking at the 
hand which wrote them. This proceeding getting to have 
something of an eerie look at last to Yaks eyes, and an eerie 
effect upon his nerves, he begged leave of absence for a 
quarter of an hour. 

“I shall be here for another hour at least, now that I 
have begun this,” said the lawyer, Go and dine by all 
means. Take your time.” 

Yal let himself out, and stumbled down the dusky stair- 
case. He did not care about dining; but, cigar in mouth, 
paced up and down the flagged border of the square, keep- 
ing watch upon the lawyer s door. About half an hour or 
so, he grew tired of this, and returned. The man of law 
admitted him, and set his parchment face above the parch- 
ment deed again. The place became so silent, that Val 
could hear his own watch ticking. An hour went by 
drearily, and the parchment being done with, was folded, 
put into a tin case and locked up in a tin box, and the 
lawyer lowered his lamp. “ Something the matter with 
the wires,” he said, composedly. “ Suppose we give them 
to half -past nine. What do you say?” 

Yal said “ Yes” to that; and they sat on in silence. 

“ Do you mind this twilight?” asked* the old man, after 
a great gap of time had been crossed. “ It rests my eyes.” 

“ Not at all,” Yal answered; and again they sat in si- 
lence. Rumors of the life of the streets reached them now 
and then; at times a footstep coming nearer made the 
watchers prick their ears and listen; twice a footstep paused 
outside and went on again. At last, upon the very limit 
of the time, and when the lawyer had already reached out 
his hand for his overcoat, the sound of a hurried footstep 
and a cheerful whistle coming near arrested it. The out- 
stretched hand changed suddenly from its first intent, and 
without moving a muscle, enjoined silence. The step paused 
before the outer door, and the whistle ceased; and then, as 
though paid in proportion to the noise he made, and wild- 
ly anxious to increase his salary, the owner of the step 
plunged upstairs and battered at the door. The old man 
responded, received a telegram, turned up the lamp, put 
on his spectacles, opened the envelope, all with aggravating 
slowness, drew forth the inclosure, and read it. Then sud- 
denly flashing from an old man to a young one, he strode 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 253 

across with outstretched hand and slapped Yal on the 
shoulder. 

“You have done it, sir! The money is safe. That 
scoundrel hasn't got it after all." The parchment face 
was flushed, and the old eyes were moistened. “ I didn't 
dare to hope it," said the old fellow. “ I declare, sir, I am 
as much rejoiced as if the money were my own." 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

I HAD THE PLEASURE OF MEETING YOU, SIR, ONE HOT 
DAY LA.ST SUMMER, WHEN YOU PAID ME THIS IDEN- 
TICAL HALF-SOVEREIGN. 

Gerard, grasping Hiram tigjitly by both arms, faced 
him beneath the gaslight. Hiram scarcely understanding 
as yet who had got hold of him, faced Gerard. The two 
looked at each other curiously. 

“I reckon, mister," said Hiram, “that you've made 
some sort of error." 

Gerard seemed to be of that opinion too, if his face were 
trustworthy. As to who Hiram might be, he had not, at 
that moment, the remotest notion. 

“ Perhaps I have," he answered, with a touch of dubious 
sarcasm in his tone. “ We shall see." He released Hiram, 
and warned him. “ Stand there. If you attempt to make 
a move, Fll throw you out of the window." 

“Then," responded Hiram, “ I will not attempt to make 
amove. *. Your diggings air too lofty." He kept his eyes 
on Gerard, but stooped for his hat warily, and, having se- 
cured it, brushed it with his elbow, and put it on, a little 
on one side. Gerard, regarding him, stepped sideways to 
the letter-box, and took out the packet. He knew by the 
look and feel of it what it was, but he was in a mood to do 
strict justice. He opened the package, therefore, and 
found the half-crown in it, and the inscription on the paper, 
as before. 

“ Now," he asked, tossing the half-crown on the table, 
and looking dangerously at Hiram, “ who set you to do 
this? Don't -prevaricate with me, or I’ll break every bone 
in your body. Tell me who sent you here with these jnso- 


254 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


lent messages. " Hiram returned no answer, but held him 
with his glittering eye, watchful of every movement. “ Out 
with it!" cried Gerard. 

“ Keep your hair on," returned Hiram, in a tone of soft 
expostulation. “ You're in no hurry to get bald." Gerard 
made a swift motion toward him. Hiram made a swifter 
in retreat. The two being on either side a round table of 
considerable size, it was not easy to get at close quarters, 
unless both were so minded. Hiram, in his flight, con- 
trived to possess himself of a poker, and held it in an atti- 
tude of defense; improvised and amateurish, but unpleasant 
for an assailant to look at. Gerard, even in his heat of 
anger, recognized the loss of dignity inevitably accruing to 
a chase around the circular table, and stood still, devising 
means of approach. Hiram took advantage of this pause, 
and prepared to offer suasive counsel. “ This is not a re- 
ception," he began, “caleoolated to feed the enthoosiasm 
of affection." At that second Gerard vaulted the table, 
closed with him, and wrested the poker from his grasp. 
Hiram, more fortunate than in their first encounter, eluded 
his hold, but left a portion of his coat behind. “Look 
here!" said Hiram from the other side of the table, “you 
ridicalous madman. What do you mean by it?" 

“Who sent you here?" cried Gerard again. 

“ Nobody sent me here." 

“What do you mean by dropping these confounded 
things in my letter-box three nights running? Who are 
you?" 

“Now," responded Hiram, in soothing tones, “ this is 
reasonable. If you'll put that poker down and listen to 
reason, Fll explain. And if you won't, and will insist on 
strife, 1 ain't goiiT to let you maul me how you like — mind 
that. I'm loath to hurt you, and bein' a sensible man my- 
self, I am not hungry to be hurt. You don't know me?" 

“ I don't know you from Adam." 

“ I am not Adam. I had the pleasure of meeting you, 
sir, ten miles from Brierham, one hot day last summer, 
when you paid me this identical half-sovereign for carrying 
a note to Valentine Strange, Esquire." 

“Well?" 

“ Well. You may remember I told you that you had 
given me the only streak of luck I had ever had since 1 
landed on these shores. You may recall likewise, that I 


VALEKTIKE STRAKGE. 255 

remarked if ever you were in a real hole, you might do 
worse than apply to Hiram Search. '' 

“Well?” This reiterated inquiry began to assume a 
dogged and threatening tone. 

“I am beginning to see,” continued Hiram, “that 
thistles are my proper diet. I own up straight, that if any- 
body had offered me help on the sly like this, I should have 
rode rusty with him. But if you think that my half- 
crowns are so plentiful that I can afford to play jokes with 
'em, you are prob'ly a greater ass than I am. Mister, let 
me lay it out straight for you. You helped me, when you 
was that squeezed in with money you could hardly move. 
Then I happened to read in the papers about Garling — I 
won't distress you if I can help it — then you happened to 
come and dine at my employer's restaurant — I was that 
mud-headed — Well, now, between man an' man, you 
can't ask more. I'm sorry I offended. You can call me 
anything you like, if it relieves you. I deserve to be 
kicked, though I should not, as a friend, advise you, or any 
man to kick me. I apologize with all my heart; and if you 
fancy that I am mean enough to have offended you willing- 
ly, you do me a greater wrong, sir, than I have offered 
you.'' 

There was positively a real dignity in Hiram's tone as he 
concluded. His manner was conciliatory, frank, inde- 
pendent, yet submissive, as became his apology. 

But Gerard was an Englishman, and was not going to be 
conciliated all on a sudden by any man alive. “ Couldn't 
you guess, you blundering idiot,'' he said roughly, “that 
you could do nothing more offensive, nothing more insult- 
ing?'' He was very favorably impressed with Hiram, or 
he would not have bestowed a word upon him. 

The other felt a sort of amity in the rough words and 
tones, and half unconsciously advanced to meet it. “ Let 
me make my excuses as clear as I know,'' he said. “ It's 
partly the smallness of the sum that aggravates the natural 
feelings of the British aristocrat.'' Gerard laughed out- 
right, his first laugh for six weeks. “It is indeed,'' said 
Hiram. “Seriously, now, it is. There never was any- 
thing I tried to do with my fingers I couldn't manage, 
worse or better; but in respect to feelings, I haven't got a 
sense of touch at all, and that's a fact. But now, look 
here! I am real grieved, but — Look here! Don't you 


256 


VALENTINE STRAXGE. 


mind me because I can't grease it and make it run smooth, 
and scent it and make it smell nice. You helped me, and 
you told me a lie when you did it. Yes, sir. Says you: 
‘ I've got no silver, dern it all; and I saw the shine of sil- 
ver in your purse. Then says you again : * I suppose you 
don't earn half-a-sovereign so easy every day;' and you put 
that rather harsh, to save my feelings and make me think 
it wasn't charity. I've thought of that often; and I've 
said to myself : * Send that man round to me if ever he's in 
trouble, and I am game to my bottom dollar. ' I have not 
your sense of touch, sir, in these matters, but I was deeply 
grateful, and I've had a liking for you ever since. I took 
a foolish way of sliowin' it, and hurt your feelings. But 
now, I've aj3ologized, and you have looked over my clumsi- 
ness, and now — clean straight — I'm worth five pound. Is 
half of that any use to you?" 

“My good fellow," said Gerard, haughtily, “you are 
quite mistaken in supposing that I am in want of money. 
If I were, I should find other means of getting it, than by 
taking your earnings from yon." He was somewhat 
touched, in spite of his hauteur. Perhaps he was a little 
loftier in manner because he was touched, and did not care 
to show it. He read incredulity in Hiram's face; and to 
put an end to his doubts, he sent his hand into his pocket 
and drew out a mingled handful of gold and silver. “I am 
not in immediate danger of starvation," he said lightly and 
in a kindlier tone. Hiram felt the friendliness of -this 
revelation, instinctively. He did not stop to think it out, 
but he knew that Gerard would rather have submitted to 
any misa]^preliension than clear it in this way unless at the 
bidding of an impulse altogether friendly. “You are a 
good fellow, Search," said the gentleman, reaching out his 
right hand. “You misunderstood my position — that was 
all." 

Hiram pushed out his lean claw at arm's-length and exe- 
cuted a solemn shake-hands. 

“ I am glad to see," he answered, “ that I am not such 
an ass as I thought I was. You laughed just now when I 
called you an aristocrat. But I was not mistaken. " 

Gerard laughed again. “ This open expression of opin- 
ion is a little embarrassing, Mr. Search." 

“ I beg your pardon," said Hiram gravely; “I will not 
olfend again. I have not your sense of touch, sir. I am 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 25 7 

not an educated man/ and I am not acquainted with the 
ways of society. But I will not offend again. ” 

“ What have you been doing since I saw you last?” asked 
Gefard, anxious to atone for his misunderstanding of 
Hiram's gratitude. The man's downright simplicity and 
truthfulness attracted him. Hiram began to tell his story. 
Neither of them noticed that the outer door had all this 
time been left unfastened, until, in the midst of Hiram's 
narrative, a great hammering began upon it, and Gerard, 
arising to open it, met Yal Strange and the lawyer in the 
lobby. 

“Mr. Lumby,” said the old lawyer, directly he set eyes 
upon him, “let me congratulate you! We have recovered 
everything that villain Garling ran away with. You are a 
wealthy man once more.'' This was a burst of singular 
indiscretion for so discreet a man; but the old boy had had 
the news pent in him for ten minutes; he had been a dear 
friend and old school-fellow of Gerard's grandfather; he had 
been his father's adviser this thirty years past or nearly; and 
he was more puffed out and explosive with joy and 
triumph than a legal authority of threescore years and 
ten can endure to be with safety. 

The result of the communication thus made was alarm- 
ing; and Gerard, beneath the little gaslight in the lobby, 
turned so pale, and made so blind a clutch at the door- 
post, that the lawyer caught him on one side and Yal 
Strange on the other, and led him back into the room, 
where he sunk into a chair, hid his face in his hands, and 
sobbed hysterically. 

“ Bealiy, my dear Gerard,” said the little old lawyer, 
standing over him, patting his shoulder, and trying to 
cover his own error by disregarding the effect it had upon 
the other, “we must have a little jollification on the 
strength of this discovery. Bealiy we must. Perrier- Jouet 
must flow for this, sir. Pommery-Greno? the life-blood of 
the Widow Clicquot? what shall it be?” All this time he 
was patting and smoothing away at Gerard's shoulder. 
“ Mr. Strange,” he cried, not ceasing this friendly atten- 
tion for a minute, “we ought to have supplied ourselves 
upon the way. It is all due to our friend Mr. Strange, 
under Providence, that this amazing discovery was made, 
Gerard. Your friend Mr. Strange is answerable for it. 
Come, come, come; you'll get up and say ‘ Thank you' to 


258 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Mr. Strange, surely. A quarter of a million is worth say- 
ing * Thank you ’ for. Come, come, come . 33 Eunning on 
thus, to cover Gerard’s confusion and his own, he patted 
and soothed until Gerard raised a pale face and looked 
around him. 

“What hit me,” he said, “was the thought of the poor 
old governor. If it all came back, it would be too late for 
him.” 

“No, no, no!” cried the little lawyer. “Let us hope 
not— let us hope not. Let us trust in Providence. He will 
recover, and spend many happy years, I trust — many, 
many happy years. ” And that ancient lawyer, in spite of 
liis face of parchment, and the legal inner dust of fifty 
years, sat down and wept for joy. In all his threescore 
years and ten he had known no greater grief than the fall 
of the great House. A placid equable life of threescore 
years and ten, with a little love-making in it, so far back 
that his old love’s grandchildren were common councilmen, 
and nothing to mark its even tenor since those far-off days, 
but two strong friendships. The two dearest friends he 
had ever had were Gerard’s grandfather and father. Why 
should he not feel a touch of sacred, friendly love again? 
But the old man’s emotion killed Gerard’s, so far as show 
was concerned at least. The two young men shook hands 
with each other and with the lawyer; and he, conscious of 
human frailty, made great efforts, and pulled himself to- 
gether, and the three sent out for wine, and made bright 
speeches, and tried to be merry — with the ghosts about 
them. Constance for Yal’s ghost. Gerard’s father with 
wrecked intellect and blighted life for the old lawyer’s. 
Both for Gerard, and his pale mother seated between the 
two. And so the wine ran dull somehow in spite of its 
sparkle, and suddenly Gerard, in his attempt to be gay, be- 
thought him of Mr. Search, and made inquiry for him. 
Hiram had disappeared. 

Hiram indeed was by this time in his own lodgings, pull- 
ing at the black clay by the side of a guttering tallow can- 
dle. “I am glad of his luck,” he said heartily, “ and it’s 
a sort of weight off me somehow that Mary’s father has 
dropped that ill-got load. I’d have liked to have congrat- 
ulated him; but I daren’t stop for a word. It might pay a 
waiter too well to look honest, to congratulate a millionaire, 
when you’ve just lend him seven and sixpence,” 

^ 


VALEKTIKE STRAHGE. 


259 


When a second bottle had been opened, and one libation 
poured to Fortune, the lawyer took his leave, and the two 
young men remained together. Yal was very bitter in- 
wardly, and Gerardos thanks were wormwood to him. 
Gerard was all gratitude and grief and hope, a very com- 
pound of contradictory emotion; Yal, all rage, watchful- 
ness, and despair. In his weakness, he was for & moment 
enraged at his own fealty to honor. Why should he have 
played such a card as he held into Gerardos hands, until he 
was sure of his own end? He was keenly on the watch to 
draw forth or catch the news of Constance's whereabouts. 
He half despaired of winning now, for he had cast the win- 
ning card away, and so for once he drank deeply, talking 
the while with a feverish attempt at gayety, and pushing 
the conversation, whenever he could, in the direction of 
Gerard's hopes. For a long time, nothing came of this, 
but at last Gerard said: “I shall cross to Paris to-morrow, 
after seeing the governor.” 

“Ah!” responded Val, with well-concealed interest. 
“What is going on there?” 

“Why,” said simple Gerard, “you know of course that 
when this smash came, I was engaged to be married. 
That went by the board, with everything else. And now 
it's the only thing I care for, that it sets me right in that 
respect again. We shall have to divide with my cousins, 
of course — the poor old governor is out of it forever, I am 
afraid— but I shall have enough left. You heard what was 
said just now. Their share is not more than fifty thousand 
apiece. That leaves a hundred and thirty-three thousand 
to the governor, and the old house and my mother’s prop- 
erty, besides what is saved from the smash. We are as 
well off as ever, thanks to you, old fellow. We haven't as 
much money, of course, but we have more than we shall 
ever want to spend. ” 

“And so youTe going to Paris to-morrow?” said Yal, 
bringing the conversation round again. It was horrible to 
listen to Gerard's talk of certainty, but he must listen, to 
learn what he wanted to know. 

“Yes,” said Gerard. “I shall see my mother in the 
morning, and break the news to her, and see the governor, 
and then cross over. ” * 

“Are they all staying there?” asked Val, pouring out a 
glass of wine, and pressing the neck of the bottle tightly 


260 


VALENTIKE STRAKGE. 


against tlie glass, to prevent them from clanking in his 
agitated hands. 

“ Yes,” responded Gerard. “ Constance has not been 
well lately, and Miss Jolly — that’s her aunt, you know — 
insisted on going to Paris for a change.” 

“ Where are they?” asked Val. His voice veiled his own 
tremor and despair so ill that he vvas almost amazed to see 
it go unnoticed. 

“ At the Grand Hotel,” Gerard answered; and being no 
further questioned, slipped into silence. 

Yal sat on thorns awhile, and then took leave. Once in 
the street, he ran until he found a hansom, and was driven 
to his chambers at full speed. His luggage was undis- 
turbed. He bade his man carry it out to the hansom, and 
side by side with his valet, drove to St. Katherine’s Docks. 
The boat for Boulogne started that night at eleven-thirty, 
and was caught at the moment of departure. An eighteen 
hours’ passage would land him at Boulogne at half past 
five, in time for the six o’clock slow train for Paris. Even 
that gave him some faint hope of seeing 'Constance before 
she retired for the night. Gerard, starting on the mor- 
row, would leave Charing Cross at half past seven in the 
evening, would reach Paris at six in the morning, and would 
possibly go to bed to snatch a few hours’ sleep. There 
loomed another chance. 

Half the gloomy night Val paced the deck; and at last, 
with a great-coat and a rug, lay down upon it, beneath the 
clouds and the solemn rifts between .them sown with 
earnest stars. There was but half an hour to win by, and 
the thought kept him awake, in a panic of hope and fear. 
Slowly the stars faded; the intense depths of sky grew 
gray; the clouds, which had been gray, grew black; the bleak 
sunlight touched the sulky Channel billows. He rose 
again, and paced the deck, and looked at the Kentish coast, 
still in sight, and sickened for the journey’s end. All day 
long time crawled, and his veins fevered, and his watch 
seemed to stand still. But five o’clock saw Boulogne har- 
bor; and then, whilst the hands of the watch suddenly ran 
with great rapidity, the boat seemed to crawl on the water. 
Half past five, and the harbor scarcely seemed nearer. At 
six minutes to. six they moored beside the port, but on the 
wrong side for the railway-station, Seven minutes later 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


261 


Yal stood upon the platform, and looked after the last 
carriage of the retreating train. 

He waited, with racked patience, for the next train. 
Perhaps, after all, Gerald might miss it — might somehow 
be delayed. The slow, deliberate seconds, the leaden- 
footed minutes, the dreary, dreary hours, went by. The 
mail- train drew up at the platform, and he took his seat. 
Everything was silent, and the place seemed asleep, until 
the sudden flare of gas, and the sudden rush of storming 
feet, told of the arrival of the mail passengers. He would 
not look to see if Gerard were there or not. Fortune had 
been against him all along, and would be against him still. 
He set up the big collar of his traveling-coat, and pulled 
his cap down upon his eyes, to escape a possible recogni- 
tion. The clamor and bustle died away on the platform. 
The signal sounded. The carriage answered with a jerk 
to the first motion of the engine, and at that instant a pas- 
senger opened the door of the compartment in which Val 
sat, and leaped in lightly. It was Gerard Lumby. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“DID THE RETURN OF ONE OF HER LOVERS. PLEASE HER, 
EVEN THOUGH HE WERE NOT THE CHOSEN?” 

With no more than a casual glance at his solitary travel- 
ing companion, Gerard folded himself in his rug and dis- 
posed himself to sleep. Val found the situation eminently 
trying. He had made a sacrifice to honor on the clear and 
definite understanding that he was not to lose by it. It was 
a direct bid for a bargain with Fate, and Fate had declined ; 
to accept the bond of the bargain. He was positively losing 
by his sacrifice after all, and for once in a way honesty was 
not the best policy. It is undeniable that Honor is a hard 
mistress to such as serve her with divided hearts. She will 
have everything her own way, or — she punishes. She will 
not tolerate anything done for reward. She is the desert 
of reward, and not the payment of it. , Val had obeyed 
her with a divided loyalty, and was already far on the 
track of repentance. Mr. Charles Reade says, with that 
savage incisiveness which belongs to him, that our truest re- 
pentailces are reserved for our best actions. That is a hard 


262 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


and bitter saying; but there is truth in it, if it is not alto- 
gether true: and here was Val bewailing himself that he 
had not held the master-card and played it, though the 
Knave's face grinned from the card -board. If honor's path 
were smooth, would we not all rather tread it than other- 
wise? Who will invent some scheme of self-sacrifice-made- 
easy and invite us all to purchasable saintship? No man 
elects to be a rogue, for the sake of being one. To despise 
one's self is no luxury. 

If you desire to know how all the obstacles he met with 
swelled Yal's passion, you may find for yourself a world-old 
illustration by dropping an impediment in the first country 
streamlet or town gutter you may come to. How the small 
stream suddenly swells and rages! Do but grant that its 
source may not dry up, and that you go on building up 
impediments, and out of any village runlet you may secure 
a flood which, breaking loose at last, will sweep away 
houses. And Yal's love, which, if its current had run 
smoothly, might have been a placid stream enough, had 
long since grown torrent-like and overwhelming. 

Gerard had been in his way all along, but now he barred 
Yal's physical egress from this unpleasant corner. Placidly 
sleeping, he stretched his legs from one seat to the other, 
and there was no getting past him without the chance of 
recognition; and Val, for his own purposes, was anxious not 
to be recognized. Constance was free to accept the prof- 
fer of any man's hand, and Yal was of course equally free 
to make proffer of his own; but it was natural that he 
should not care to be met by his rival on a journey which 
had that end in view. The train made its customary stop- 
pages, and at each of them he would willingly have escaped 
to another carriage; but he did not choose to venture on 
the experiment. In spite of his loss of sleep the night be- 
fore, Gerard's presence kept him awake, and at every stir 
the sleeper made, he fixed his protecting collar anew and 
gave a tug, at his traveling-cap. Put the sleeper went on 
sleeping to the journey's end, and therein took another un- 
conscious advantage, of which Yal was conscious. Sudden- 
ly determined not to be recognized, Val coiled himself in 
his corner until Gerard had gathered up his belongings and 
had left the carriage. But if he were to preserve his presence 
as a secret, he must seek another hotel than that in which 
Constance and Gerard would alike be domiciled, and thus 


YALEtfTOTE STRAKGE. 


263 


Would he be at a new disadvantage. Well, then, he would 
accept the chance of observation, and with this resolve he 
followed into the Grand Hotel, and after a bath, sat down 
to write a note, informing Constance of his presence, and 
begging her most urgently to see him. 

In the meantime, Gerard, having made his toilet, had 
already shaken hands with Mr. Jolly and with Reginald. 
He had not been aware of the race against a rival; but he 
had wired that he was coming, and they had both arisen 
early to meet him. Mr. J oily was prepared to protect his 
daughter from any renewed proposals from the bankrupt 
lover. Reginald was ready if need were to come in as a 
moral buffer between the forces which seemed certain to 
attack each other. The elder man was posed in an atti- 
tude of conscious dignity when Gerard entered. The lad’s 
face was radiant as he Game in, and he advanced with 
both hands outstretching. 

“Congratulate me!” were his first words. “Every- 
thing that fellow Garling ran away with is recovered!” 
Mr. Jolly’s attitude of dignity went suddenly to pieces, and 
he was all amazement. Gerard told the story briefly, and 
explained exactly how matters stood. He told by what 
strange accident the missing papers had been discovered; 
and at the mention of Val Strange’s name, the younger 
listener hid himself behind his eyeglass and gave vent to an 
expressive whistle, which neither of the others noticed. 
Mr. J oily had a good deal to think of, and not a great deal 
of time in which to turn it over. The firm would start 
again, so Gerard said, in answer to inquiry: everybody had 
been paid to the uttermost farthing; the news of the re- 
covery of the stolen capital would be bruited abroad; and 
the House would stand as well as ever in the eyes of the 
world. That was all well; but in the meantime Gerard 
was undoubtedly many thousands poorer than he had been. 
Still, at his father’s death he would have everything — a 
hundred and thirty thousand pounds, a noble house and a 
fine park, his mother’s fortune — whatever that might 
amount to — and a share in the profits of the rehabilitated 
firm. Yes — perhaps he might risk assent again. Con- 
stance was fretting a good deal, and Mr. Jolly had a hun- 
dred times declared that women were incomprehensible. 
She had treated the mail as if he had been one icicle and 
she another, whilst she was sure of marrying him; and now 


264 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


that she had lost what apparently she had never cared for, 
she was moping and melancholy, and in love with solitude. 
The girl was evidently grieving for him. Let her have 
him back. Poor Mr. Jolly's life had been a burden these 
six weeks. From the hour of her mother's death, Con- 
stance's future had been a trouble to him; and just when, 
with unexpected ease and good fortune, he had shelved the 
weight, and was prepared to enjoy the world — an unen- 
cumbered widower — she had come back upon him, and 
the brilliant engagement had ended in a tragical fiasco. 
Of course he did not guess that any other trouble weighed 
upon his daughter's mind, but the tears that seemed shed 
for Gerard were mainly shed for Val's desertion of her. 
She had not wept long, but a settled languor was upon her 
still, and the world seemed to have lost all charm and in- 
terest. When he had rapidly ^turned over such of these 
considerations as occurred to him, Mr. J oily spoke. 

“ My dear Gerard," he said, in his Disraelian manner, 
“when you first approached me upon this question, 1 did 
myself the justice to assure you that I had but one object 
to achieve, and that that object was my daughter's happi- 
ness. If I had not thought you likely to promote the at- 
tainment of that object, I should never have encouraged 
you in your approach to her affections." The profane 
Eeginald murmured “Hear! hear!" and his undertone 
was so ill-measured that the interruption was audible to 
his father. That ideal parent turned a glance of reproach 
upon him, and continued: “Approach to her affections. 
For I am not one of those who would consent to see mar- 
riage degraded to the level of a sordid tie, or reduced to 
the baseness of a business negotiation." He felt himself 
to be in fine oratorical form, and would have been glad to 
admit all English-speaking people then in Paris, that they 
might see how well he bore it off. There was always a 
shadowy audience in his mind when he laid himself out in 
the pursuit of conversational excellence. He felt now — 
in a nebulous, vague way, be it understood — as if he ha- 
rangued the inhabitants of listening spheres, and that he 
was more like his model than common. “ With that can- 
dor which has always seemed to me one of your most at- 
tractive characteristics, you tell me that your financial 
position is not altogether what it was. If the financial 
position " — he said this with a playful flourish and a smile 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


265 


— “ had been your only recommendation, that would have 
weighed against you. But, as matters stand, I resume my 
old position. I take a position of friendly neutrality, 
Gerard. You did not consult me when, in pursuance of 
the dictates of an honorable delicacy, you withdrew from 
your engagement; or perhaps I might have been unworldly 
and unwise enough to combat your resolve. You do me 
the honor to consult me now; but I waive all right of veto, 
and I refer you to the person most interested. I preserve 
my neutrality strictly, but I wish you well. I have no in- 
fluence, or if I possess influence, 1 conceive that I exercise 
my parental duties best by refusing to exert it. God bless 
you!” Mr. Jolly suddenly and unexpectedly wrung Gerardos 
hand, and producing his handkerchief, gave it a solemn 
flourish and hid his countenance. It is probable that lie 
had not the remotest notion of being a humbug. If he 
began by expressing his own magnanimity, he always 
ended by believing in it. 

Gerard knew him better than of old; but he was not 
keen in observation; and he liked to believe in people; 
being himself of a most honest and faithful nature. So he 
returned the grip with interest, and left the model father's 
knuckles limp and aching. Reginald meanwhile smoothed 
his baldness with a doubtful grin, expressive of a sentiment 
half way between shame and amusement. And if he kept 
silence with respect to his father's emotion, it may be that 
he thought the more. His own congratulations were brief 
and hearty. 

“Look here,” he said; “I'll go and tell Constance 
you're here;” and with that intent he sped in search of 
Miss Lucretia's maid. It so happened that Yal's servant 
was at the moment of Reginald's arrival on the scene in f 
search of that damsel, being intrusted to deliver to her 
care his master's note. The wily youth saw him, and 
marveled. “ Is Yal here?” he asked himself. If he were 
there, it could be but for one object. Reginald's sympa- 
thies, like other things human, were liable to fluctuations. 
He had been moved by Val's distress when he parted with 
him; but he had been moved since then by the tremendous 
calamities which had fallen upon Gerard. Yal had not 
acted altogether well in pursuing Constance after her en- 
gagement to Gerard; whilst his rival had borne himself, to 
Reginald's mind, splendidly, beneath misfortunes almost 


266 


VALENTINE STRANGE, 


unexampled. So that now the balance of Reginald's sym- 
pathies was with Gerard. Bat bethinking himself that 
Strange had had it in his power to delay his rival's good 
fortune, he appreciated his honor at the full, and being 
thus tugged by both, he decided not to interfere with ei- 
ther. “ Bet ’em both fight it out between 'em,” he said 
viciously. But by intercepting Miss Lucretia's maid, he 
interfered without knowing it. “ Is my sister up?” he 
asked. 

“ Oh yes, sir,” the maid responded; “ she took coffee half 
an hour ago. ” 

“ Did she, my dear?” he returned with a fatherly air. 
“Well, it's no use for me to make love to you, because I 
know the noble Duke your father won't let you marry out 
of the Harrystocracy, and I'm as poor as Job. So just 
you run and tell her that I want to see her. Will you? 
There's a darling !” 

The damsel murmured something, of which “ Imperence ” 
alone was audible, and departed on her errand with an air 
of scorn. But being out of sight, she stopped to giggle. 

“ They're very nice,” said the bald-headed young man, 
putting up his glass to look after her— “ they're very nice, 
all of 'em, but are they worth the trouble we take about 
'em?” 

The maid returned before he had found an answer to 
that query. “ Miss Constance says you will see her in her 
dressing-room.” 

“I'll say nothing at all about Val,” Reginald decided as 
he entered his sister's room. Constance sat at the window, 
and looked at him with a languid and uninterested air as 
he entered. To her surprise, he kissed her before sitting 
down. “ Con, my dear,” he said, “ I have news for you. 
Who. do you think is here?” 

“ I never cared for riddles,” she answered. “ Who is 
here?” 

“ Gerard came from London this morning. He has re- 
covered all the stolen money, and is nearly as well-off as 
ever. He wants to see you. Will you come to him?” 

Now,\this was not altogether leaving the rivals to fight 
it out between themselves; but then you and I are not the 
only inconsistent people in the world. He was beginning 
to get interested in spite of himself. Constance was very 
pale of late* but at this news a gentle color stole to her 


VAREHTISTE STRAtfGE. 


267 


cheek. Did the return of one of her lovers please her* even 
though he were not the chosen? The six weeks and more 
which had gone since Yaks departure had not left her un- 
changed. For six weeks she had been free and lonely. 
Val had expatriated himself, and at his going, she had 
done her deliberate best to root him from her heart. Then 
she had pitied Gerard, and had felt more kindly to him 
since his misfortunes. She had seen his honest clear gray 
eyes clouded with the agony of his sorrows. She had 
thought often of that despairing gesture with which he had 
turned away from her, and the eloquent cry, low yet ter- 
rible, with which he had released her. She did not love 
him; but she was not devoid of pity, and she was left 
alone. And operating with these factors of j)ity and 
loneliness was the fact of his former claim. Had the two 
men stood side by side, she would not have chosen Gerard. 
But the man she would have chosen had gone away on pur- 
pose to forget her, and she had schooled herself to know it. 
She remembered how deeply interested her father had been 
in Gerardos success, and supposed the interest renewed. 
In these late days, life had had neither salt nor savor. 
And so in brief she resigned herself, and when Reginald 
asked his question, she responded “ Yes,” and arose lan- 
guidly, yet with a little blush upon her cheek, born of I 
know not what emotion. 

She was dressed in some light-colored diaphanous stuff 
which had soft and graceful folds, and she wore just a 
touch of warmer color at the throat. To Gerardos eyes as 
she approached him, her pallor and her languor lent her a 
new beauty. But he had never seen her without thinking 
that she looked more beautiful than ever. And now he 
was lover all over, and trouble vanished, and care Took 
flight. He kissed her hand, purely and simply because he 
could not help it, despite the presence of her father and 
her brother. Mr. Jolly made a second oration in parlia- 
mentary form. Reginald left the room to escape it, and 
neither Gerard nor Constance paid much heed to it — Ger- 
ard, because he was filled with his own happiness; nor 
Constance, because her father's heavy solemnity of plati- 
tude was always wearisome. Pleasantly unconscious of 
this tacit disdain, the model father flowed along. He took 
Constance's approval for granted, and evidently regarded 
a renewal of the engagement, under the conditions, as a 


VALENTINE STRAKGE. 


268 

thing needing his own consent and nothing more. She had 
supposed that this was his view of the affair; and, for her 
— what did it matter? By and by the model parent, hav- 
ing sufficiently aired himself, withdrew, and there came an 
hour which made Gerard an atonement for his griefs. He 
knelt at Constance's side with both her hands in his, and 
eloquent for once in his life, he told her how more than 
happy he was, and how more than wretched he had been. 

“ And you have grieved for me too," he murmured, 
kissing her hands again and again. A man whose scholar- 
ship goes no further than the Latin quotations at the end 
of a pocket-edition of Johnson, knows — Credula res amor 
est. -She was pale, and ah! it was sweet to think, she had 
grown pale in grieving for him, so sweet he could but think 
it. And she would give no denial. Why should she pain 
him? He had suffered, and he loved her, and it was in her 
power to make him happy, and it was worth some- 
thing in a world so forlorn to be able to make anybody 
happy. And let not the male reader accept this as a com- 
monplace. It was proof of a nature which was at bottom 
indubitably noble. For, as a rule, a woman — as the great- 
est Englishwoman of this century has told us — discerns 
not a sex as we do, but an individual. She loves one — one 
who belongs to her ; she has no passion for hu manity. Loving 
Dick, she deifies him, but is quite contemptuous about Tom 
and William, who are all round ten times better fellows; 
and should Tom or William make love to her, she snubs 
him, and despises him for it. That Dick loves her, is 
Dick's glory and her own; but a planetful of outside males 
might kneel and she deride. It was, then, anything but a 
feminine trait in Constance that she listened with pity and 
yielding to the love-tale of a man she did not love. Her 
hands were cool in his grasp. Her pulse beat no faster be- 
cause of his kisses and his vows. Since Fate resigned her 
to him, she would be true to him; and if she could make 
him happy, it was something. But she — had she ever 
been happy? Would she ever be happy any more? 

Then, not to break, but to continue Gerard's dream, 
came breakfast. It was his first hapj)y meal for so long, 
and it is true, as John Dryden sung, “ sweet is pleasure — 
sweet is pleasure after pain. " 

“ I protest," said Reginald, scrutinizing a cutlet, and 
appropriating it, “that I feel Arcadian. Let us go and 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 269 

picnic somewhere. It is going to be a lovely day. Let us 
go to St. Cloud or to the Bois. Let us go to the Bois, and 
take a hamper, and lunch in the shade like M. Lebon 
Epicier and his house on a summer Sunday. Eh, govern- 
or? What do you say. Aunt Lucretia?” 

“ Let us go to St. Cloud by all means,” returned the old 
lady. She was in a condition of tremulous happiness at 
Constance's recovery of her lover, and had already taken a 
fancy to Gerard. To be sure, his affairs were no longer 
colossal, which was of itself a pity, but he was so big and 
genial, so bright and tender and devoted, that her heart 
warmed to him. 

“ Shall we go, Constance?” asked Mr. Jolly. 

“ By all means,” said Constance, trying to look as if the 
proposal pleased her. 

“ I haven't seen St. Cloud since I was a hoy,” said happy 
Gerard. So the jaunt was reckoned settled. The sleeping- 
and dressing-rooms occupied by Mr. Jolly and his son were 
en suite with the breakfast-room, but the ladies slejit at the 
end of the corridor. Constance gave her arm to Miss Lu- 
cretia, and the faded old woman aud the beautiful girl went 
out together, making a pretty picture. The rooms Yal 
Strange had taken Opened on that corridor, and he saw 
them as they passed his open door. All this time whilst 
Gerard had been happy, Yal had been waiting in suspense, 
and torturing himself with fears, which were better 
grounded even than he feared, for his hopes fought them 
half down, and would not give them sway. Two minutes 
later, Gerard passed, elate, with his head high and a 
radiant smile upon his face, humming La donna e mobile . 
The broad staircase faced Val's door, and Gerard went 
springing up it three steps at a time. 

“He lias won!” cried Yal, wildly; and with a savage 
gesture, he slammed the door, and cast himself into a chair. 
The very carriage of Gerard's figure bespoke triumph; the 
gay air he hummed, the smile upon his face, sung triumph ! 
“Won? Has he won? He laughs best who laughs last, 
and I will win or die. She does not care for him. Fool 
that I was to run away! Had I stayed in England, she 
would have been mine by now, and no man could have come 
between us. Oh, Constance! Not a word yet? not aline? 
Do you know that I am here?” 

When Constance reached her own room. Miss Lucretia's 


m 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


maid presented lier with a note. The handwriting was not 
known to her; and turning first to the signature, she was 
seized with a sudden tremor, so that the very paper rustled 
in her hand. The maid looked at her curiously. “ You 
may attend your mistress/' said Constance, quietly. “I 
shall not trouble you this morning." 

Mr. Jolly, after the failure of Lumby and Lumby, had 
begun to retrench. He had spent a good deal of money on 
the strength of Constance's engagement, and when it seemed 
that nothing was to come of it, he retrenched. With Mr. 
Jolly, retrenchment naturally tended to the docking of 
other people's little comforts rather than his own, and one 
of his economic measures was to refuse vote of supply for 
Constance's maid. 

“I returned to England two days ago," ran the note, 
beginning thus abruptly and without preface, “ and learned 
that you were free. I should have been here a day sooner, 
but I waited to restore Gerard's fortune to his hands. I 
could not rob him of everything. I will explain this when 
I see you. You will let me see you for a moment? You 
know my love already. I can speak now without dishonor, 
and can tell you that I love you still, that I have loved you 
from the hour I first saw you, and shall love you to the last 
hour of my life. You know all this already. I have 
waited, and I have despaired; but new hope brings new 
pain. Forgive me if I seem to say too much, or if I seem 
to say it too unguardedly. Yours, Y. S." 

She sat for a long time over these impassioned words. 
To you or to me they may seem no more than words, and 
“like a tale of little meaning, though the words are 
strong." But eloquence is in the ears that hear more than 
the tongue that speaks, and with every word she read — true 
sign of love— she heard Yal's voice pleading in it. He had 
been so near, after all; and in place of mere cold duty, 
she might have had love and no breach of duty with it, had 
she been spared from Gerard for but two hours. Her tears 
fell heavily upon the paper, like the drops that fall at the 
beginning of a storm. She kissed the honeyed, cruel words 
that told of the love she longed for; and suddenly starting 
up, she thrust the letter in her bosom, and began to dress. 
She would tell Gerard how unhappy she was, and beg him 
to release her. Her plighted word of half a year since still 
bound her after this morning's tacit reacceptance of the 


VA LENTINE STKAKGE. 


%7l 


bond. But Gerard was a man, and a man of honor. lie 
would release her if she claimed release, and she would 
claim it. She could almost love him if he let her go. 

Her mind being made up to this, she recurred to the 
mysterious phrases in Val’s letter — “ I waited to restore 
Gerardos fortune to his hands. I could not rob him of 
everything. ” Being unable to find any meaning for them, 
she sought her aunt’s room. “ Aunty, dear,” she said, “ I 
have not heard how the fortune came back again. Can 
you tell me?” 

“ I am not a business woman, my dear,” said Miss Lu- 
cre tia, whose gray locks were just then in the hands of her 
maid; “but, as I understand the matter from your father, 
a friend of Mr. Lumby’s found the money — a Mr. Grainger. 
I wonder if he were one of the Essex Graingers? I knew 
the Essex Graingers years ago. They were very prying 
people, and quite likely to find anything that was hidden 
anywhere. ” 

“Was it not Mr. Strange who found the money?” asked 
Constance — “Mr. Valentine Strange?” 

“Was it?” cried the old lady. “Valentine? What a 
stupid way of speakihg your father has, my dear. He puts 
er at the end of everything. Oh yes, my dear. Of course 
it was Valentine Strange. He has a paper-mill. Oh yes, 
of course. And he found the money in bank-notes — a mill- 
ion pounds’ worth, only some of it belongs to other peo- 
ple — and the poor mad gentleman is supposed to have hid- 
den them in the waste paper after the other gentleman had 
stolen them. Although of course it is absurd to speak of 
him as a gentleman. I am so glad to know that it was 
Valentine Strange.” 

Constance was not greatly enlightened as to the history 
of the case, but she understood enough. Val would not 
rob Gerard of his fortune for an hour, or take away his 
chance of an appeal to her. “He shall not be unhappy,” 
she said to herself, “because he has acted so nobly, and has 
waited to give his rival a chance before he spoke. How 
splendid of him! How manly! How chivalrous!” 

She resolved anew that she would appeal to Gerard; but 
she had reckoned without herself, for when he and she 
were left alone that day at St. Cloud, she could not find 
courage to speak. She put it off. She would write to him. 
It- would be easier to write. And Yal meantime went un- 


272 


VALENTINE STRANGE, 


answered, and saw them going away, and watched them, 
hours after, as they came in again, himself unseen. As 
Constance walked along the corridor to her room that 
night, Gerard overtook her at Yaks door, and not guessing 
who waited and listened there, he said good-night with a 
tender triumph in his tone at which Yal clinched his hands 
and maddened. . 

“ Good-niglit, darling,” said Gerard. “ Can you guess 
how happy you have made me? Good-night.” 

“ Good -night, Gerard,” returned Constance. She wanted 
so much to propitiate him, she dreaded so much to give 
him pain, that her voice was tenderer than she knew. How 
could she.be so cruel as to dismiss him? How could she 
be so cruel to herself and Val as not to dismiss him? 
Gerard with one foot on the staircase watched until the 
door ttosed behind her, and then went slowly up the stair. 
Yal’s pale face from his dark chamber door- way looked after 
him. 

“ She has left my note unanswered all day long,” he 
moaned. “If I have been mistaken! If she loves him 
after all! If — ” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ COMES OVER HERE TO SEE CON, AND FINDS HIMSELF 
TOO LATE.” 

Constance did not appear at the breakfast-table next 
morning; and Miss Lucretia, in answer to inquiries, shook 
her curls with a world of young-lady-like emphasis at 
Gerard, and declared that the poor darling was quite worn 
out by excitement, had passed a broken night, and was 
now happily asleep. Gerard was sheepishly discomfited by 
this intelligence, since he, in Miss Lucretia^s eyes, was the 
evident source of mischief. The old lady sat but a little 
time at breakfast, and withdrew to keep watch and ward 
over the sleeper. To her surprise, the young lady was 
seated in her peignoir at a table, writing. She huddled 
away the paper guiltily on her aunt’s entrance, and locked 
it in a writing-desk. 

“ You silly child,” said Aunt Lucretia with mild severity, 
“you will spoil him if you write to him every half hour 
when you can not see him. Go to bed. You are quite 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


273 


? ushed. You have had a bad night, and you must sleep. 

shall bring my work here, and sit beside you until you do 
it. And I shall keep guard oyer you until you are fit to 
get up again.” 

The lovely defaulter made no answer to this rebuke, but 
crept into bed submissively, and after a time, feigned 
sleep. She was glad that her aunt suspected nothing. [ 
The note had not been intended for the accepted lover, but I 
for Val Strange. To be compelled to stillness, to lie un- 
bound, yet fettered by the eye of affectionate watchfulness, 
whilst the storm of feeling heaves the soul, and the soul 
strives to stir the body as the wind heaves the sea, to suffer 
the torments of anxiety, of remorse, of despised or unfruit- 
ful love, and yet to feign sleep and make no sign, is an 
agony added to an agony. 

Miss Lucretia stuck to her post gallantly, and em- 
broidered and watched with much combined industry and 
vigilance. She was of course without an idea of the restraint 
her presence inflicted, and in her kindly heart regarded 
herself as an unmixed blessing. Yal in the meantime was 
settling down into the waters of despondency; but before 
absolutely surrendering himself for lost, he determined to 
make one more essay. So he wrote again; and this time, 
fearing and almost hoping that the last note might have 
miscarried, he gave the bearer definite instructions. 

“ You are sure you know Miss Jolly’s maid, Richards?” 
“ Yes, sir,” said Richards. He was a romantic middle- 
aged person, a little given to drink in lonely hours, and 
much addicted to the perusal of imaginative literature of 
a certain type. He had been known to weep above his 
whisky-and- water and the woes of Lady Ella, in that tender 
romance “Her Golden Hair,” in the “Boudoir Journal;” J 
and he was beginning in his ridiculous old head to make J 
romances for his employer, and was interested in the in- 
trigue. “I seen the young person once before at Miss 
Jolly’s in town — the helder Miss Jolly, sir.” 

“'Very well,” returned his master. “Take that note 
and give it to the maid. Ask her to give it to Miss Jolly 
when she is alone — not the elder Miss J oily, mind. ” 

“ Certainly not, sir,” said the observant Richards. Val, 
who found the clandestine business oppressive, could almost 
have kicked the body-servant for his ready appreciation of 
the condition of affairs. Don Giovanni seems to have had 


-X V" 


27 4 


VALEXTIKE STEAK GE. 


no compunctions about taking Leporello into consultation^ 
and all Vanbrugh’s dashing young gentlemen are at home 
in the confidence of their valets; but Val was a gentleman 
of nicer notions, and found no pleasure in imparting the 
secrets of his soul to Mr. Richards. He glared angrily, 
therefore, at that sympathetic menial, and briefly bidding 
him do as he was told, turned his back upon him. It is an 
old-world story that when the master marries the mistress, 
the man weds the maid, and Mr. Richards had lived until 
his time had come. Miss Lucretia’s maid, now devoted 
chiefly to Constance’s service, was a bright little brunette, 
with a pretty figure and a neat foot, a peachy cheek and 
sparkling eyes; and she wore that modest and becoming 
dress of female servitude which ladies might copy with ad- 
vantage to their looks. If the thickset hazel were dying 
from Richards’s topmost head, and the hateful crow had al- 
ready trodden the corners of his eyes, he had still a heart, 
and he was still a bachelor. He had saved a little money. 
He knew of a public-house, a really respectable concern, in 
which, as landlord, it might be pleasant to settle down to 
the otium cum dignitate. The respectable concern would 
want a landlady to brighten it; and why — cried Richards’s 
heart aloud within him— should thjs charming little creat- 
ure not be rescued from the restraints of a servant’s life? 
So Richards, bent on his master’s prosperity, did also a 
little lo’v e-making on his own account. In short, like a 
good servant, he identified himself with his master’s cause. 
But inexorable Fate makes no allowance for good intentions 
if you steer your bark on the rocks, and the valet’s ship- 
wreck involved the master’s. Of all delusive coquettes. 
Fortune is the most delusive and the most coquettish, and 
she must needs at once throw little Selina in the way of 
romantic Richards. How, it stood to reason that if Rich- 
ards at once intrusted his master’s note to the maiden’s 
care, he would have less chance of prosecuting his own suit 
than if he delayed the delivery a little while. 

“ Good-morning, miss,” said Richards. 

“ Good-morning,” replied Selina; and since Richards 
occupied the greater part of the way, she stood still. 
Richards, like other people, began to find the art of conver- 
sation more difficult than he had fancied it. But it seemed 
altogether safe and politic to say that it was beautiful 
weather for the time of year, Selina agreed to that prop- 


YALEKTIKE STRAHGE. 275 

Osition amiably enough, but evinced a discouraging desire 
to get by and go about her business. 

“ You hayen't been long in Paris, have you-?” asked the 
middle-aged valet. 

“ Longer than you have, if it’s the school of 
they say it is,” answered the maid. “ You needn 
the 'ole of the corridor.” 

“I shouldn't ha' stopped you, my dear,” pleaded Mr. 
Richards, “ only I'd got somethink important to say.” 

“ Well, say it then,” responded the damsel pertly. “ My 
dear, indeed!” 

In oratory, the best of all rules is to have something im- 
portant to say, and to say it. But Richards was not an 
orator, and the appeal took him somewhat at a disadvan- 
tage. “Very good orators, when they are out, will spit,” 
said Rosalind; “ but for lovers, lacking matter, the clean- 
liest shift is to kiss.” Mr. Richards had never studied 
Shakespeare; but he followed his recipe, or strove to fol- 
low it. But as, with the slow grace of middle age, he 
essayed to circle the jimp and taper form before him — with 
insinuating air, bent downward, and had almost won his 
purpose, swift and sudden the damsel slapped his face, first 
on one side and then on the other, and bounding past him, 
rapidly traversed the corridor and disappeared. The dis- 
comfited Richards prowled about in vain for a second sight 
of the scornful beauty. Little Selina might have resented 
his advances in any case; but it is within the narrator's 
knowledge that a gentleman out of livery who resided, 
i when his master was in town, in Chesterfield Street, had 
saved a little money, and knew a public-house, and was of 
opinion that Selina would make a capital landlady. The 
.Chesterfield Street gentleman had breathed his moving 
story in the maiden's ear! Selina was “ engaged.” 

So Val's second note miscarried; and Richards, being in- 
terrogated, made false declaration concerning it, and said 
it was delivered, hoping, like others who have failed, to 
make failure good before he could be detected. All that 
day ther wretched valet pervaded the corridor, with the 
note lying on his conscience like a weight, and once meet- 
ing Selina, implored her to stay but for a moment. But 
she, with head in air, went by; and he, like the parent in 
Mr. Campbell's poem, “was left lamenting.” Then the 
miserable man, being a person of no resources, burned Val's 

• ■. v -' — ‘''^im- 


politeness 
't take up 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


r 276 


letter, and wrote by that evening's post in application for a 
vacant “ place," and so prepared to escape the day of 
reckoning. He was the readier to do this that he was a 
bad sailor, and had been compelled to live at ‘sea so much 
of late, that the possession of a stomach had become a bur- 
den to him. 

No response to Val's second appeal. She scorned him, 
then? Had he not deserved to be scorned? She had told 
him that she did not care for him; and he, in his vanity, 
had believed, in spite of her protestations, that she loved 
him. Well — he was rightly served. So the cold fit fol- 
lowed the hot, and in due time again the hot fit followed 
the cold. He had been so desirous of escaping Gerard 
hitherto, that he had remained almost a prisoner; but now, 
growing reckless, he wandered uneasily about the building, 
and suddenly encountered Reginald. He professed great 
preoccupation of manner, hoping to go by unnoticed; but, 
being hailed, he turned, and, with well-acted surprise, 
cried: “Hillo! What brings you in Paris ?" 

“ Oh, we're all here," returned Reginald, linking his arm 
in Val's. “ I heard from Lumby that you had come back 
again. What an extraordinary chance by which you found 
those papers, wasn't it?" 

“ Yes, it was curious," said Val, striving after a casual 
air — “very curious. And so you're all here, are you? 
How's the governor?" 

“ Oh, as usual," said the little man, with unfilial care- 
lessness. 

“And your sister?" 

“ Pretty well," was the answer. Reginald made no ac- 
count of female headaches. 

“You spoke of Gerard just now," said Val. “Is he 
here?" 

“Of course," the little man responded — “of course. 
Directly you gave him the papers, he came racing over 
here. When that fellow Garling bolted and the smash 
came, the first thing Gerard did was to go to Constance 
and tell her about it, leaving her to cry-off. She has been 
a good deal cut up, and of course they've made it up again. 
Seen Chaumont in Toto-chez-Tata ? No? It's the best 
thing here." Reginald, like the rest, had been misled by 
his sister. He had indeed had some clew to the maze in 
which she walked, but he had lost it. Her second accept- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


m 


ance of Gerard was unforced and spontaneous, and lie sup- 
posed she was pleasing herself, and that Valentine Strange 
had been vain enough to deceive himself. But though he 
could not understand his sister, the little man was keen 
enough to make out his companion’s condition. “Will 
you come to see Chaumont to-night?” he asked. 

“ No,” said Val, hurriedly; “ I am engaged. I must be 
off at once. How long do you stay here?” 

“ We leave to-morrow morning,” said Reginald. “We 
should have gone back to-day, but for Gerardos coming. ” 

“Remember me to all of them,” said Val, lightly. “1 
must be off. Good-bye, old man. I shall see you in town 
shortly, I dare say.” He shook hands with nervous haste, 
and ran rapidly down-stairs. The little man, drumming 
with his fingers on the top of his hat, looked after him 
thoughtfully. 

“ Didn't want to see me,” he mused. “Walking lan- 
guidly and apparently without a purpose when I met him, 
and in a dreadful hurry now. M-m-m. Hasn’t got over 
it yet. Comes over here to see Con, and finds himself too 
late. I’m very sorry for him, poor beggar; but if ever I 
am taken like that, if ever I fall in love, I’ll try to hide 
the symptoms; and if the young woman doesn’t want me. 
I’ll try my hardest not to want the young woman. ” 

Val’s persistence in a cause so evidently lost seemed a 
little disgraceful and unmanly, and even to Val himself it 
wore that complexion at times. The matter appeared to 
be growing hopeless enough now, and it seemed that Con- 
stance had resolved to hold no communication with him. 
If she were so resolved, Val was not yet so far gone that 
he could not see his way to the filial cure of love. It was 
his belief that she had cared for him, which had so danger- 
ously drawn him on all along; and he felt now that if he 
could but convince himself that he had been mistaken, he 
could go away and take his punishment like a man. But 
if he could, he would have a last glimpse of her before 
going forever into the desert. So he went to see Toto-cliez - 
Tata , and sitting in a dusky corner of the house he 
watched for Constance. Had he looked to the stage and 
listened, he might have found a reason for her absence; 
but anyhow she did not come, and the fascinating Chau- 
mont tripped and smiled and warbled, and Val heard noth- 
ing and saw nothing but misery and stupidity. Paris 


278 


YALEKTIKE STRAKGE. 


laughed and applauded. Val for once thought the Parisian 
judgment nothing worth. Reginald was there alone, with 
no eyes for anything but the stage, and Strange got away 
unnoticed. He saw Mr. Jolly and his party leave the hotel 
next morning, and, himself unseen, watched Gerard and 
Constance as they drove away. In the evening, he discon- 
solately followed, and arriving in London, learned that ! 
they had all gone down to the Grange. Well, he would go 
to Brierham, and there might meet with her. Let him 
only learn that she was happy, and he would be content. 
The unsophisticated credulity of the human conscience is a 
thing to wonder at. All life long a man may lie to it, and 
it will believe him in spite of countless detections. Val's 
new fraud was harmless and natural enough. So much 
may be admitted. 

In the course of their journey to London, Gerard and 
Reginald had a talk which resulted in a movement impor- 
tant to this story. 

“Do you remember the first night we met?” asked 
Gerard. 

“ Yes," said Reginald. “ It was at Val Strange's." He 
half sighed “Poor Val" under his breath; but Gerard, 
who had ears like a fox, overheard the exclamation. 

'“Why poor Val?" asked the unsuspicious Gerard. 

“ What's the matter with himV ' 

“That's his secret," said the little man — “not mine. I 
don't think lie's happy. I didn't mean to interrupt you. 
What about the first time we met?'' 

“ Do you remember a visitor that evening?" 

“No. Ah, yes. The Yankee fellow, who threw back 
Val's money, because Val supposed that he might have 
peeped into your letter.'' 

“ That's the man," said Gerard. “ Do you know, I 
shrewdly suspect that Yankee to be one of the finest fel- 
lows alive?" And Gerard, with much enthusiasm and some 
humor, told the story of Hiram's clandestine benefactions. 
With the honest fervor natural to youth, Reginald declared 
that Hiram was a brick, and protested loudly that some- 
thing should be done to reward gratitude. 

“I don't think it's a common virtue," said Reginald; 

“ and where you find it, I think the soil is likely to be general- 
ly good. " And indeed there are few of the virtues which are 
less inclined to be solitary. The two agreed to take ad- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


279 


vantage of their passage through London to call upon 
Hiram. They had but a few hours to spare; but not being 
hindered by other business they drove Strandward, and 
alighted at the restaurant. When they entered,, Hiram was 
deftly distributing a pile of plates before a tableful of 
hungry guests. He recognized Gerard at once, and bowed 
to him with the waiter’s gesture of welcome, and hav- 
ing disposed of the hungry tableful, hurried to the new 
arrivals. 

“.Good-day, sir,” he said to Gerard. “Good-day to 
you also, mister. I had the pleasure of seein’ you, sir, I 
remember, when Mr. Lumby sent me on a message to Val- 
entine Strange, Esquire. You was in the billiard-room in 
that gentleman’s mansion. What shall I have the pleasure 
of bringin’ you, gentlemen?” They had not eaten a meal 
since leaving Paris, ten hours before, and they were each 
ready for a beefsteak. Hiram bustled about, and brought 
up the steaks in prime order, tender and juicy, flanked 
by floury potatoes, crisp little loaves, and the foaming 
tankard. 

“And now,” said Gerard, “ when you can spare a mo- 
ment, I want to speak to you.” In a little while Hiram 
found a lull in the demand for edibles and potables, and 
presented himself before the friends. “What sort of a 
berth have you here?” 

“ Wal, sir,” returns Hiram, with the tone of a man who 
declines to commit himself, “it’s the bridge that’s kerryin’ 
me over a strip of time’s tide, and I haven’t got anything 
to say agen it. ” 

“ Nor much for it, eh?” said Eeginald. 

“Yes, sir,” returned Hiram; “lots for it. But it ain’t 
the sort of theme to stimulate eloquence, and that’s a fact. 
It’s greasier than I like, for one thing. ” 

“ Would you care to change it?” asked Gerard. 

“Wal, mister,” responded the cautious Hiram, “that 
depends. I don’t want to leap out o’ the fryin’-pan into 
the streets.” 

“Would you like to take service?” 

“ And go about in a pea-green vest and have my head 
floured?” inquired Hiram, with decision. “ No, sir; I 
should not.” He looked a little off ended at the sugges- 
tion. 

“ No; thank you,” said Gerard; “ I don't want a flunky,. 


280 


. VALENTINE STRANGE. 


If I offer you a post, I shall not ask you to have your head 
floured. But I want a smart faithful man, whom I can 
trust; a handy fellow who has no objection to travel, and 
who won’t object to do what he’s asked to do.” 

“Wal, sir,” returned Hiram, “if your shoot in’ my way, 
it’s a bull’s-eye. I’m all that. But what should I be 
asked to do?” 

“I want a man to attend me personally, to travel with 
me when I travel, and to act generally as a sort of combi-, 
nation of valet and confidential man. I shall offer you a lib- 
eral salary, and if you treat me well I shall treat you 
well.” 

“ Very good,” said Hiram. “I am engaged. But if 
you don’t mind. I’ll make a stipulation — two stipulations. 
Number one: If I don’t like the berth when I’ve tried it, 
I am not to be regarded as ongrateful if I throw it up.” 

“ Certainly not,” interjected Gerard. 

“ And number two,” continued Hiram. “ That my 
own private proceeding air not curtailed, so long as they 
don’t interfere with my duties.” 

“ What private proceedings?” inquired Gerard with some 
misgiving. 

“ Wal,” said Hiram, slowly, looking from one to the 
other and stooping to fold a napkin on the table, “ the 
Apostle Paul says matrimony’s honorable. As soon as ever 
I can manage it — I’ve got a little gell to take care of, and 
I’m going to take that way with her. And if you give me 
a berth that lets me marry, I shall do it. ” 

“ Oh !” said Reginald, seeing Gerard a little dashed by 
this information. " “ And wdio’s the lady?” 

Hiram straightened himself and looked at the little man 
keenly, in so much that Eeginald felt embarrassed, and took 
refuge behind his eyeglass. “ Yes,” said Hiram, as if in 
answer to an inward inquiry, “ I’ll answer that question. 
The lady is the daughter of a bitter enemy of your family’s, 
Mr. Lumby. Her father is — Wal, mister, the long and 
short of it is, her father’s about the biggest thief unhung. 
His name’s Garling.” At this the two friends glared at 
him and each other. “ That is st>, gentlemen,” said 
Hiram, with great gravity. “ I know something about it, 
and part of it I guess. Mr. Garling married under a false 
name, and deserted his wife and daughter, when my little 
gell was a baby.” And in answer to Gerard’s amazed in- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


281 


quiries, he told briefly all he knew of Garling, detailing 
with the rest the scene in the offices of the great firm. “I 
think it possible that I may owe you something," said 
Gerard, enigmatically, when Hiran/s narration was closed. 
The date of Hiran/s interview with Garling was that of the 
elder Lumby's last visit to town. Gerard more than half- 
guessed the truth. “ I must leave you to arrange your 
own domestic affairs,” he said, after a pause. “ I shall 
not interfere with them. And now — as a matter of form 
— though I could scarcely forego it, I must ask to see 
your employer, and make some inquiries about you.” 

“ That's only fair to me,” said Hiram, dryly; and re- 
tiring, sent up the master of the restaurant. Gerard made 
his inquiries. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said the restaurateur, “I should be 
very unwilling to give him a recommendation. ” 

“ May I ask why?” demanded Gerard. 

“ Because,” returned Hiran/s employer, with a twinkle 
of his beady foreign eyes, “ he is the best servant I ever 
had, and I should be sorry to lose him.” 

The two friends laughed at this; and the restaurateur, 
pleased at the success of his little jest, laughed also. 

“ He is honest?” said Gerard. 

“As I have found him,” said his employer, “as the 
day.” 

“Sober?” 

“Remarkably. He is good fellow,” declared the res- 
taurateur, returning to his joke; “ and I am sorry to say 
it, if it is to lose me my Hiram Search. ” 

“You don't object to his bettering his position?” asked 
Gerard. 

“No, sir,” the foreigner answered heartily. “He is 
a good fellow. He will get on.” 

On the strength of this, Hiram was recalled; prelim- 
inaries were completed; and the waiter formally gave his 
employer a week's notice. It was agreed that he should 
present himself at Lumby Hall in complete readiness to 
enter upon his duties. 

“You will have a good servant, sir," said the little 
foreigner. 

“ And I shall have a good master,” said Hiram. 

“I thought you had no masters,” said Gerard, “you 
Americans?” 


282 


YALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ If yon call beef mutton,, it don't alter the flavor much," 
responded Hiram; “and when Fm in a country, I reckon 
to try to speak the language. " 

“ Oh," said Gerard, “ and how many languages do you 
speak?" 

“ I sha'n't take the cheer for languages at nary one of 
your universities yet awhile," returned Hiram; “but I've 
spent five years in the Leevant, and Fve picked up a bit o' 
five or six — French, Italian, Spanish, Greek, German, and 
a smatterin' of Turkish. I can talk any one of 'em fit to be 
smiled at; but I can't read one, wuss luck." 

“ Gerard," said Reginald when the two were outside, 
“it's my opinion that Mr. Search is a jewel." 

“I think so too," said Gerard; “but we shall see." 

The week sped by rapidly; and Hiram at the appointed 
hour appeared at Lumby Hall. In less than a week after 
the date of his appearance, the cook and the upper-house- 
maid, who were both comely young women, and had hith- 
erto been close companions, quarreled over him. “ Ladies," 
said Hiram, having observed this, and desiring to live at 
peace, “I feel myself kind of shaking down in this 
charmin' society of yourn. After a rovin' life, how sweet 
is do-mestic felicity ! The view of the feminine character 
which you have afforded me sence I first entered the pres- 
ent abode of bliss, has sort of crystallized the notions of 
matrimony which up to that time were floatin' in my soul. 
I'll ask you to excuse the poetry; but that's the fact. And 
in consequence of the impression prodooced upon my mind 
by you two charmin' angels, I am goin' to get married. " 

“Indeed, Mr. Search," said the upper-housemaid. She 
was a courageous woman, and bore the blow steadily. The 
cook was hors de combat . “ May we hask," said the upper- 
house-maid, “ who is the 'appy bride?" 

“ The happy bride, as you air so flatterin' as to call 
her," returned Hiram, “will next week assoom a position 
in the household of Mr. Jolly." 

This was true. Hiram had already interested Gerard in 
his sweetheart's fortunes, and little Mary was elected as 
Constance's maid. 


YALENTINE STRANGE. 


283 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AND HOW HE BEGAN TO KNOW HOW FUTILE HIS DIS- 
HONESTY WOULD HAVE BEEN EVEN HAD HE SUC- 
| CEEDED. 

i Oyer London a dull gray sky, obscuring the last sun 
that shines this month of May. Over Lumby Hall a leaden 
sky that weeps and weeps; and round about it, a maudlin 
wind that moans. In London City, beneath that dull gray 
sky, the great House of Lumby and Lumby once more 
flourishes, and lifts a head the prouder for defeated shame. 
In Lumby Hall there are hearts that beat in answer to the 
City triumph, and throb with sweeter and more human 
joys; for in Lumby Hall there is this great joy, that the 
master of the house, long stunned by terrible calamity, is 
beginning to know the forms and faces round him and to 
remember names. 

You who are old, and have lived your lives, and bred 
your children to usefulness and honor, do you remember 
any happier times than those when your children began to 
know you, and to reach out chubby arms for you, and to 
make lingual stumbles over “father” or “mother”? 
Hone sweeter, I dare answer for you. Yet in this house 
was a still deeper and more sacred joy ; for the head of it 
was coming out of a dreadful dream of childhood, that had 
been renewed too early; the. brain that once had concocted 
great schemes, was again active; the weak heart that had 
led large enterprises, was once more beginning to pulsate 
aright. He was coming back slowly to conscious life, and 
would by and by hear glad tidings — as though some mar- 
iner who had suffered utter shipwreck should wake to find 
his good craft whole again, and the drowned comrade's 
hand holding his with the grasp of friendship. 

Wailing wind and clouded sky around and over Lumby 
Hall, and such gay and tender hearts within it. Low- 
lying skies above the great refurbished house of Lumby 
and Lumby in the City. Strike fast, free wings, and bear 
us on. The British Channel gray and misty; the coast of 
France with a glint of sunlight on it; the fields of France 
bright with broad sunshine, and many a corn-field waving 


284 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


in the wind. On southward and westward, till we pass the 
awful hills, and hover beneath a blazing sun and in the 
burning summer air of Spain. And southward now to 
Cadiz, where we drop, swooping downward with sure flight 
to strike our fancied quarry — Garling! 

Garling on the shady side of a narrow street, walking 
with bent head and hands behind him as of old, looking an 
incarnate secret here, as in London City half a year ago — 
Garling self-banished, with all his wicked schemes foiled 
and broken, and his heart broken with his schemes — Gar- 
ling among his ghosts again. 

“ Do you love me well enough to trust me?” 

4i I have no words to tell you how I love you.” 

Then a chamber with a dying woman in it, and a cheap 
clock hurrying on the time and stumbling in its haste to 
get the horror over. Then a dream-journey by cab and 
rail and sea. Then a real journey by cab renewing the 
dream-journey; a railway-station filled with hurrying 
crowds, faces showing here and there in the gaslight, and 
lost here and there in the gloom; a platform almost desert- 
ed; a green light turning a sudden eye upon it; a lamp 
swinging; a whistle sounding; a hand upon his arm, and a 
heart which seems for a second as though it ceased to beat. 
His own. If it would but cease to beat! If it would but 
cease ! 

Lost — all lost. The game played quite in vain. Familiar 
voices in the street laugh at the lost gamester — familiar 
faces smile derisively. He hears the voices — “ AVhen did 
ever villainy thrive? There is a fate in these things.” 
He reads the meaning of the smile. “ We were fools 
enough to believe this shallow fellow a financial genius.” 
Is it bitter? Is wormwood bitter? He would rather live 
on wormwood than face that smile. And it mocks him 
always, awake and in his dreams, and there is no escape 
from it. 

A night at sea, with a moon struggling to pierce a bank 
of clouds; the sea crying with waste voices. The game 
played out, and played in vain. A figure on the deck of a 
ship which floats a black hulk on the waste gray heaving 
waters — a figure with bent head and hands folded behind 
him, ghost-tormented. Garling, in this lonely narrow 
Cadiz street, walks with bent head and hands folded be- 
hind him, and knows that figure on the ship's deck and 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


285 


knows the ghosts that haunt him. He knows the figure, 
flying with false passport for the swindlers refuge, Spain. 
“Edwin Martial, aged 49, height 5 ft. 6 in., complex- 
ion sallow;” and so on, and so on. He has that phan- 
tom's passport in his pocket. He sees the gray ghost land- 
ing at the quay; he sees him taking lodgings, walking the 
streets of Cadiz day by day, eating his phantom heart out 
as he goes. Then in fancy the ghost shoulders him, and 
as it were melts into him, and he and the ghost are one. 
He and the ghost walk on together to a cafe in a by-street, 
and go in together. 

Years before, when the cashier first meditated on his 
crime, he had begun to qualify himself for a residence in 
Spain. There is but little pleasure to be got in any foreign 
country if you are a resident there, cut olf from commun- 
ion with your own countrymen, unless you know the 
language spoken by the people round about you. Garling 
was not a common villain, and had set to work, having 
once made up his mind to flee to Spain, to learn Spanish. 
It is not a difficult language; and though he spoke it like 
a stranger, he learned to read and write it as glibly and 
correctly as his mother-tongue. But though he was not a 
common villain, and though his majestic plot had been 
wrecked by chance, and not by any fault inherent in it, he 
had fallen into the one curious blunder of fancying that 
perpetual leisure would bring with it unrestricted pleasures. 
Well, he had got perpetual leisure, and it was gall. The 
bare fact that he was without employment crushed him. 
He had lived plainly, though to his very heart a gourmet, 
promising himself the pleasures of the table. He was not 
so poor even now, with the honest savings of his life-time, 
that he could not command those pleasures, and he had no 
joy in them. He had loved good wine, and though hold- 
ing himself back from it, had lusted after it. It had lost 
its flavor and its sparkle. It did but upset his Spartan 
stomach and make his head ache. He had lived for the 
World and the Flesh, and he was here surrendered to the 
Devil; and the world was empty and ashen and gray; the 
joys of the world were years and years behind him. 

And now he began to know how futile his dishonesty 
would have been even had he succeeded, and he groaned 
inwardly many a time, and acknowledged the truth of that 
base but salutary proverb which says that honesty is tho 


286 


VALEXTINE STRAXGE. 


best policy. He began to feel tlie proverb base as well as 
true, for a plain reason. It is but a ji>oor reason to be 
lionest — that it pays. Honesty has a better plea than that. 
It is honest, whether it be a good policy or not. And so 
this able scoundrel — this swindler of genius — was crushed 
before the last blow fell upon him. And here now the last 
blow was to fall. 

Spain is not an advanced country, and has done her best 
or her worst to sweep the tide of human progress back from 
her shores. Spain is the stanch old uncompromising Tory 
among nations. Yet even Spain could not shut out that 
glorified and beatified Paul Pry we name “the press. ” She 
could fetter Paul. But for once in a way he brought the 
truth home, and struck it deep to the heart of a remorseful, 
but not yet repentant, villain; for Garling took up from 
the marble-topped sloppy little table in his cafe a Spanish 
journal, and therein read this narrative. Paul had gar- 
bled the story a little, as you will see, but he was right in 
the main. 

“ A singular romance has just transacted itself in Lon- 
don. The last chapter of this romance reserves itself for 
Madrid, and is therefore of special interest for our readers. 
The great company of Lombaro Brothers, who probably 
tajte their name from Lombaro Street, the great banking 
quarter of England, was lately compelled to suspend pay- 
ment. For more than twenty years the affairs of the Com- 
pany were conducted by One Garling. The name and the 
persistent character of the criminal alike point to Scandina- 
via as his birth-place. One Garling was a gentleman of the 
loftiest repute, and was chancellor of the City Exchequer. 
He was completely trusted by the Company, and was be- 
lieved to conduct their affairs with unequaled skill and 
probity; but in reality he was a criminal of daring genius. 
During the whole of jhe time for which he was intrusted 
with the conduct of affairs, he was engaged in the elabora- 
tion of a scheme for the ruin of his employers, a plot to 
which he appears to have been stimulated by a hatred of 
the City institutions. The result of defalcations spread 
over a long series of years, amounting to twenty-five mill- 
ions of reals, was deposited at Madrid, and One Garling 
himself escaped to this country. It now transpires, how- 
ever, from the statement of the English journals, that he 
was detected before his flight and compelled to sign a con- 


VALEXTIXE STKAXGE. 


287 


fession of his misdeeds, by Sir Lombaro, the head of the 
City Company. Sir Lombaro also succeeded in extorting 
from One Garling a complete restitution of the stolen 
moneys. But now begins the romance of the story. Sir 
Lombaro, who is presumably old and frail, was so affected 
by the emotion of the time, that he lost his reason, and 
having mislaid the drafts, he allowed the City Company to 
become ruined . 99 

Garling dropped the paper on the little marble-topped 
table, and stared before him with a ghastly face. He saw 
already that he had a second time missed his prize. He 
took up the paper and read on. 

“ The establishment was therefore declared bankrupt, 
and its properties were seized by the law officers. The 
books containing the accounts of the association were sold 
for waste-paper; and in one of them the confession of One 
Garling, and the drafts made by him upon the Spanish 
Bank at Madrid, were miraculously discovered. Applica- 
tion was immediately made to the Madrid authorities, and 
it was discovered that in spite of ail his cunning, Mr. One 
Garling had allowed the money to rest in their hands. It 
was therefore withdrawn by the authority of the mirac- 
ulously recovered drafts, and the City Company is thus re- 
established. It is seldom — And the Spanish Paul 
glided from history to morality, and preached the natural 
sermon. 

Garling read on steadfastly to the end. With that mar- 
velous fatuity which attends and produces crime not yet 
crushed out of him, his spirit writhed in incredible bitter- 
ness under this final misfortune. Since his flight he had 
never until now taken up a newspaper. He had supposed 
that as a matter of course the merchant had communicated 
with the Madrid Bankers long before he himself had set a 
foot in Spain, and now he found that the money had been 
still lying at liis call until within a few days ago. He had 
told himself a thousand times since his exile from England, 
that money was valueless to him. He had discovered be- 
yond any chance of denial that the time for such enjoy- 
ments as he had promised himself had gone by — that his 
appetites were effete, that the life he had led in London 
had so molded him that his leisure was an agony, and his 
heaping up of money the foolishest of all possible blunders. 
And yet he writhed in spirit at what he read. He was 


288 


VALENTIKE STRANGE. 


Fatehs fool, it seemed, he who had thought himself so cun- 
ning. Cunning? The man’s belief in himself crumbled. 
Where were the fertility of resource, the unshaken con- 
stancy to self which he had boasted all these years? 

He felt a singular curiosity to know how long a time had 
elapsed between the loss and the recovery of the drafts. 
He sat for an hour, thrumming on the table, with bent 
head, seeing nothing that went on about him, and scarcely 
thinking. Nobody to look at him would hare supposed 
that any very dreadful trouble weighed upon him. Trained 
so long to impassivity, his face kept a fair copy of its usual 
expression, and he passed for an idle gentleman whiling 
away the time in mere reverie. But the curiosity he felt 
drew him to the Spanish Paul. He paid for his coffee, 
inquired his way to the office of the journal in which he 
had read the news, and in due time reached it. Senor 
Parria, a courteous-mannered gentleman, received him. 
Garling explained his mission. He was Mr. Edwin Martial, 
an Englishman, having business in Cadiz, and for the 
])resent residing there. He had had transactions with the 
great House, and had known Mr. Garling. Perhaps his cu- 
riosity as to the authenticity of the story might be pardoned. 
Assuredly, replied the swarthy senor. The facts as related 
had appeared in a journal published in the Spanish capi- 
tal. Since then, the English mail, by some cause delayed 
a day, had brought the English' journals to Cadiz. The 
swarthy Senor regretted that he himself did not read En- 
glish, but — would the inquirer care to search the papers, 
and if need be, go back on the foreign file and discover 
any reference to the story? Mr. Edwin Martial was obliged. 
He declined the cigarette proffered by the courteous editor; 
he sat down with his hat on the floor beside him, and looked 
through the file of a London daily preserved for the past 
three months. There he made out the whole of the story. 
He saw himself denounced in a slashing leader as the 
Prince of Modern Swindlers. The lash of the virtuous 
leader-writers indignation fell harmless upon him. The 
eulogy of his artifice brought him no comfort. He saw, of 
course, through all the guesses the virtuous leader-writer 
made, and passed on calmly to search for the next article. 
For two or three days he made a figure in the world’s 
news, and then he dropped out of it for five or six weeks. 
Then he came back again with a burst, and for another 


YALEKTIKE STEAK GTE. 


289 


day or two he made the most interesting item in journal- 
istic intelligence. The leader-writer was at him again, 
and rejoicingly denounced him as the Prince of Modern 
Dullards. He brought his leader to its proper length by an 
affecting eulogium ujoon the virtue of honesty, and the 
paying, proper ties of that attribute; and he pictured with 
considerable pathos, the restoration of British Mercantile 
Honor to its old place in the confidence of the trading com- 
munities of the world. 

Garling read everything he could find, and the courteous 
editor cast an eye upon him now and again, and never 
made the remotest guess as to his identity. It was natural 
enough that any British mercantile person should be in- 
terested in the details of this remarkable business story. 
The courteous editor himself was interested in it, and 
questioned his guest as to the result of his readings when 
he arose to go. With colossal imperturbability the guest 
replied; with splendid quietude of demeanor, bowed him- 
self out stiffly and like an Englishman, and so went home. 

When fiends left the bodies of their human * victims at 
the bidding of the exorcists, they tore their habitations. 
Were the fiends Avarice and Greed preparing to leave Gar- 
ling that they tore him so? To an old criminal, repent- 
ance must needs be an awful thing. Had it begun to come 
to that with him? The sunlight ruled broad dazzling lines 
upon the wall, and he sat in shadow and looked at them as 
they slowly, slowly moved. Gray and stern and cold he 
sat there, and again his ghosts were with him. What a 
life ! To have these grim and terrible monitors for 
his sole companions. ‘ Well, there was business and 
its old attractions left him. He had money enough 
to start the world with, and he would heap a bigger fortune 
together by honest work than his foolish fraud had cost 
him. A blunder! a huge blunder! Wipe tire record out, 
and begin again. Start life anew. Why not, with five 
thousand pounds to begin with? There is a Bourse in 
Cadiz, and the city is one of the homes of European com- 
merce. So he set his ghosts behind him and beat his re- 
morses down, and rose for the moment a conqueror. No 
gesture proclaimed his victory; but his cheek flushed a little, 
and his sunken eyes gleamed, and his fingers trembled. 

He began that very day to prepare for his new enterprise, 
and as he did so he felt his spirit reviving, and the old reso- 
10 


290 


VALEXTIXE STIIAXGE. 


lution filled his heart again. “No man shall say the re- 
verses I have suffered broke me down/* he said; “ I will 
make a new name,, which shall outshine the old one. " He 
began with caution, and thrust his whole soul into the 
enterprise, so that howsoever the ghosts might batter at the 
gates and moan outside, they should find no entrance. He 
had not been at work a week before he found that he was 
known and recognized in spite of his alias. Not a soul 
would trust his bond a moment, and his operations were re- 
stricted to the limits of his capital. He did not quail at 
this or at anything, but went on doggedly; and with keen 
eye and resolute heart pursued his purpose. For a while it 
prospered, and it became the fashion among speculators to 
watch him, and where they could discover his financial 
movements, to follow him. It did not pay him to be fol- 
lowed, and to have the mob with him, and so he worked 
underground as it were, and grew more secret than ever. 
But it was impossible even for Garling to work without 
tools,, and he found a tool in a certain Koulo, by descent a 
Levantine polyglot, with no man knows how many nation- 
alities mingling in his veins. There was some Greek blood 
in him, as his name seemed to indicate, and some Hebrew 
strain also, as his nose and lips sufficiently testified. It is 
not probable that there was in his day a meaner dog 
in Cadiz. He had been trained for the law, but was uni- 
versally distrusted, and so had no practice of any sort, and 
was forced to live by his disreputable wits. Garling worked 
through this man without seeming to have any association 
with him, and thus leaving the mob behind, began to thrive 
mightily. Garling read character, and trusted Senor Koulo 
with not one farthing for an instant. 

The Senor knew little of his employer's affairs; but he 
learned enough to know, on one occasion, that Garling 
must necessarily have a considerable amount of money by 
him, waiting for deposit on the morrow. He was a tall, 
broad-shouldered fellow, not unhandsome in his own coarse 
way, but marred by signs of dissipation. He was a dull 
dog, and he knew it; but, though he was no match for 
Garling intellectually, he knew himself a match and more 
than a match for him physically. And so it befell that the 
fraudulent cashier experienced in turn the miseries he had 
inflicted upon another. The Senor, swaggering in under 
cover of the darkness, on pretense of having some business 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


291 


news to communicate, sat down and began a rambling, 
disconnected tale. He had been drinking to screw bis 
courage to the sticking-point, and had so far overdone it 
that his employer discerned the signs of drink upon him, 
and sternly bade him go. This command, with many 
c’rambos and c’ raj os, the swaggering Senor resented, and 
Garling, renewing his injunction, turned his back upon 
him, and in that moment received a blow which stretched 
him senseless upon the floor. Then, suddenly pallid and 
shaky, the wicked Polyglot searched his employer’s body, 
found his keys, shakily opened his cash-box, with trembling 
hands abstracted its contents, opened his safe, and renewed 
the thievish procedure there, and then, with trembling 
legs, betook himself down-stairs. He disappeared from 
Cadiz, and was believed to have transferred himself to 
London. He was said to have been seen in gorgeous rai- 
ment in the neighborhood of Leicester Square, where, of 
course, he was a patriot and a man of family, shamefully 
exiled on account of the purity of his political principles. 

It took Garling weeks to recover from the physical effects 
of the wicked Polyglot’s violence. Even when he got about 
again, he felt the old indomitable spirit gone. His nerves 
never recovered from the shock they had suffered, and at 
times his mind was clouded. Ho man pitied his misfort- 
une, and though that seemed to make little difference to 
him, he felt it. He gradually sunk back from the life 
upon which he had set himself, banked what was left of 
his money, and lived narrowly upon its interest. Being 
thus thrown upon himself, he found the ghosts* that 
haunted him more numerous and more terrible. The 
darkness gathered about him, thicker and thicker; and 
there were awful faces and voices in it. He began to see 
truly how base his life had been, and spiritual terrors 
opened on him. Into the gloomy valley in which his days 
were spent, how shall we dare to follow him? A great man 
thrown away! The capacities for a great career wasted, 
and worse than wasted! He used to murmur sometimes a 
mournful excerpt from what, in his reading days, had been 
his favorite play: “ There is no creature loves me; and 
when I die, no soul will pity me!” 

Leave him. Come away from where he sits, with the 
shadows of a hard and wicked life gathering deeply round 
him. Leave him, — with pity— if you may. We shall see 


292 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


liim but once again before tlie last Shadow which waits for 
all shall fold him— 

That Shadow, waiting with the keys, 

To shroud him from his proper scorn. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“ YOU DIDN’T ANSWER THE TWO LETTERS I SENT YOU AT 
THE GRAND HOTEL . 99 

A picnic party had assembled on Welbeck Head on a 
splendid morning in the early days of June. The picnic 
party leaving itself free to ramble over the sterner pictur- 
esqueness of the headland, naturally chose Welbeck Hol- 
low to take luncheon in. Perhaps the Hollow looked its 
best to an artist’s eye in autumn, when the foliage of its 
trees had grown mellow with the tints of the dying year, 
but on this particular June morning it was very lovely; 
and he or she who demanded a fitter place for open-air de- 
light, would have been hard to please indeed. For the 
whole broad expanse of blue above the headland absolutely 
seemed to laugh; the air was warm, the herbage dry, and 
the foliage in the first flush of its summer beauty. The 
tears of the imprisoned princess sparkled in the sunlight, 
and the little stream they made bubbled away through its 
channel of lichen-covered rock with a voice of perpetual 
music. 

At this gathering, Gerard played host, and his mother 
hostess; and there were two or three score of people there, 
mostly young, and nearly all bent on enjoying themselves, 
as their time of life and the splendid weather befitted. 
Rising against the belt of trees, in contrast to their green, 
were two or three tents of striped pink and white. The 
girls were gayly dressed, and moved about merrily here 
and there, making pretty, shifting pictures’, on which any 
eye but that of a cynic born might rest well pleased. I 
have said before — and I feel safe in repeating it — that the 
average of beauty in these favored islands is high. Most 
of the young ladies were pretty, and some one or two 
downright beautiful. But from amongst them all, had 
Paris been there to play judge again, Constance would 
have carried off the apple. Now, men are so constituted^ 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


293 


that a beautiful woman in their eyes always looks as though 
she were something more than beautiful. Rosy cheek, 
coral lip, star-like eyes, all these things, charming and ad- 
mirable of themselves, reveal to the gaze of the male 
creature inward and spiritual beauties which the fair pro- 
prietress of cheek, lip, and eye may be miles away from. 
“ Sure, nothing ill can dwell in such a temple?” My love- 
stricken Amandus, I know not. I am myself all too suscepti- 
ble to the charms which have entrapped you. I am not 
stern enough to act as censor in such a matter; but the 
sweet eyes may not mean constancy, nor the sweet lips 
good temper. Go your ways, Amandus; wed the lady if 
she will, and be as happy as you may. The chances are 
she is worthy twenty of you; but beware of taking her for 
an angel because she looks like one. Beware? Whoever 
did beware in such a case? Run away, Amandus, and be 
happy. Chloe awaits you; and though I were wiser than 
I am, why should you care to listen? Perhaps in a yearns 
time you may be able to write your own sermons. 

It was not any more than lover-like folly in Gerard to 
set a name and a virtue together. Constance and con- 
stancy ran always together in his mind. Always the re- 
cipient receives according to his own measure. The tunes 
which were familiar to you in childhood move you far 
more than more beautiful airs since listened to, because you 
put your own memories and your own emotions into them. 
The worshiper creates his own deity. Venus, and other 
forms of beauty for old Greece; fetich, bits of rag or stick 
for modern Ashantee or Ujiji. And it is so with love. 
Your wisest love is your noblest man. And if you meet 
this by telling me that Arthur marries Guinevere, that 
John Milton is three times unlucky, that Sampson falls 
into the hands of Delilah, you have said nothing unan- 
swerable. The blameless king worshiped purity though he 
knelt at a false shrine. I have no doubt that one of the 
Mrs. Miltons stood for Eve, and gave us an immortal pict- 
ure, to which she was no more like than I to Hercules. 
The big-limbed practical jester of old days had so frank 
and honest a foolish heart that he believed in Delilah when 
she had twice betrayed him. The true lover sees his own 
possible ideal best actually existent in the woman he loves, 
and before that he bows down and worships. You can al- 
ways deceive loyalty, because it is so simple-minded where 


294 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


it loves. It is harder to deceive mean-eyed suspicion, that 
peers everywhere. And the loyal-hearted Gerard had no 
doubts. That other men admired Constance, was very 
likely; men must needs admire transcendent beauty when 
they see it, and there was no jealousy in him, any more 
than in Othello before Iago transformed him. 

As host, Gerard had duties in which he was proud to be 
associated with Constance if she chose the association; but 
when she rambled away, the duties held him, and he had 
no complaint against her. He no more suspected Con- 
stance than he suspected himself, because she was his very 
ideal possible best, and at his poorest he was loyal and 
honest. It clouded his sunshine a little when he missed 
her ; he had otherwise been no lover. But he would see 
her again by and by, and meantime she was probably en- 
joying herself, and would be back again shortly. She did 
not come back so shortly as he had hoped;- and after 
awhile, he appointed a lieutenant, and set out to hunt for 
her, and naturally went the wrong way. 

Constance, with head dropping just a little, had walked 
away from the white and pink striped tents, and winding up 
through umbrageous foliage along a path of gray rock, with 
green and golden lichen glinting on it here and there, had 
come out upon a sort of platform, which commanded a view 
of the whole arena of pleasure. Her cheek was somewhat 
paler and less full than it should have been, and her eyes 
were rather soft than lustrous. For a moment she paused, 
and through the branches which concealed her, looked 
down upon the Hollow, and then turned and went upward 
toward the hoary summit of the great headland. Life 
chirruped and hummed and rustled in the air and in the 
wood on either side. Gray rabbits frolicked across the 
path; the squirrel sat up impudently in the undergrowth 
almost at her very feet, and cracked a nut from his winter 
hoard, the insect tribes wheeled round and round in dizzy 
circles, as if drunk with sunlight; and the wanton bird 
sung until the leafy covert echoed to their music. The 
very ground she trod on w^as embroidered gold and green 
in shifting patterns, as the branches waved and the chang- 
ing sunbeams flickered. Lost in her thoughts, she wan- 
dered on until the bare shoulder of the headland heaved 
up from the frondage and the sea lay in view. There, in 
the shelter of a great bowlder, washed smooth by prehistoric 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


295 


waters, and rolled there by some unknown agency, she sat 
down, and trailing her parasol point along the surface of 
the granite, made fanciful patterns of no meaning. At 
times, a faint, faint sound traveled up to where she sat 
from the picnic party, half a mile away. Voices called to 
each other in the woods. The sea, far below, made a 
solemn murmur. A footstep startled her. She looked up, 
and there stood Val Strange before her, not fifty yards 
distant. 

There was no path up here on the bare top of the head- 
land; but Val stood in a sort of gully, with vast irregular 
stones piled upon each other on each side of him; and this 
natural passage if pursued would have led him to the spot 
upon which Constance sat. But seeing her in time, and 
believing himself to be unobserved by her, he turned, shot 
beind a great bowlder, and by devious ways climbed to the 
top of the right-hand ridge, concealing himself from her 
gaze all the way. He had no doubt that Gerard was with 
her, and was anxious to escape unseen. So he crawled 
stealthily from shelter to shelter, and in brief time came 
on a line with her, and from behind a rock peeped down. 
Then he saw that she was quite alone, and repented him 
that he had hidden; he could at least have lifted his hat to 
her and have seen her face. A thrice-rejected lover had 
so much right in the world, if fortune should favor him. 
For a minute or two he watched; but she was turned away 
from him, and he could see nothing of her face. He made 
a flank movement, and secured a sight of her whole figure, 
and then he saw that she was not only alone, but that she 
was weeping. She had seen that he saw her, and she had 
marked him as he made away. Hinc illte lachrymce. Val 
was ignorant; but her loneliness encouraged him, her dis- 
tress touched him, his passion drew him to her, and in 
short he scrambled down the rocks and made the best of 
his way toward her. 

She heard him coming; by some electric message of the 
heart, she knew that it was his footstep, and not that of 
any straying picnicker; and with feminine guile, she dried 
her tears, threw into the slope of her shoulders a sort of 
pensive air of landscape observation, and feigned to be un- 
conscious of the intrusion. As he came nearer, her ap- 
parent ignorance of his presence chilled and repelled him, 
and he felt that it would have been far easier to have ap- 


296 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


proached straightforwardly, since chance apparently so 
willed it, and have gone his way. He was half -inclined to 
return, and stood still for a second or two. The pause 
warned her. She had cried when he had seemed to avoid 
her; yet almost in a minute she had told herself it was 
best lie should go by; and yet, and yet, and yet again, when 
she heard his approaching footstep, her heart rejoiced, and 
now she could not bear that he should go. With a fine 
pretense of negligence and accident, she turned, and see- 
ing him standing there, she arose, as if with a little start 
of surprise, and holding forth her hand, advanced a step 
or two to meet him. Val raised his hat, and stepping for- 
ward, took the proffered hand. 

“I had not thought you were at the picnic, Mr. 
Strange. " 

“ No," said Val. “I had an invitation to be. there; but 
I did not expect to be in England at this time, and — " He 
did not finish what he had to say, if, indeed, he had de- 
cided to say anything; but looking at her face, he saw that 
she seemed happy, in spite of his suspicion that she had 
been weeping a minute or two back. Her eyes sparkled, 
her cheek was Hushed, and she was all grace and beauty. 
Val would have been an egotist, indeed, if he had set down 
all this to his own return. Lovers do not torture them- 
selves in real life so much as they do in novels, where, as 
you know, a poor author must fill up his three volumes 
somehow; but it is beyond doubt that they are a stupid, 
and a self- torturing race. “ I was an ass to think she was 
crying," said Val to himself. “ She is happy enough. I 
suppose she loves the fellow, after all. " 

“ Indeed," said Constance, lightly and brightly enough. 
“ And where did you think of going?" 

“ My yacht is lying in Q.uadross Bay," said Val, “ and I 
thought of sailing somewhere, last Wednesday . 99 

“ A vague sort of destination, isiTt it?" said Constance, 
smiling. “ Somewhere?" 

“Yes," said Val, moodily, “vague enough." He had 
not expected to meet her and talk in this off-hand way 
with her. “ She means to be friendly, I suppose," he 
thought, “and has the sense to let by-gones be by-gones." 

“ Shall we talk nothing but commonplace?" thought 
Constance. “ Has my silence set up an unbreakable bar- 
rier?" Silence was too terrible, and she must say something. 


VALENTINE STEAK GE. 297 

“ The Hollow is a lovely place for a picnic/* she said. 
(Anything does for small-talk. ) 

Yal supposed the Hollow was well enough. “I don*t 
seem to care much for scenery lately/* said poor Val, 
vacuously. 

“No?** said Constance. 

“No/* said Val. Then ensued a conversational break- 
down, and the silence became extremely awkward. The 
two hearts could not whisper to each other through the 
barrier. Constance made a pretense of surveying the sea- 
scape. Yal, being a man, had less tact, and was still less 
an actor, of course. In love*s arena, woman stands on her 
native heath. The male creature is only a wanderer there, 
and feels himself lost. But though she kept more 
outward and inward self-possession at the moment than he 
did, she felt the continued quiet weigh so heavily, that she 
was obliged to break it, and in her anxiety to say some- 
thing, proposed the last thing she desired. “ Shall we 
join the others, Mr. Strange, since you are here, after 
all?** 

“No/* said Val; “I don*t care about it, thank you.** 
Then he made a desperate plunge. “It*s very kind of 
you to meet me in this way. It*s the wisest way, no doubt. 
But I*m not quite equal to it — yet. You didn*t answer 
the two letters I sent you at the Grand Hotel, and I*ve 
seen ever since that it was a presumptuous and unmanly 
thing to write them. But it*s not my fault 'that youVe the 
loveliest woman in the world, and — ** 

“Letters?** cried Constance. She never meant to deny 
the truth; but she had only received one, and she was eager 
to exculpate herself from the graver charge of cruelty 
and neglect he brought against her when he spoke of two. 

“l)idn*t you get them?** cried Val, half wild with a 
sudden rush of new hope. He gave her no time for an- 
swer. “ Don*t you know why I went away from England? 
Don*t you know that I was ignorant of all that happened 
during my absence, until I came back and found those 
papers?** The mere mention of the papers brought Gerard 
to his mind, . and checked him. But he broke past the 
thought, and went on the more impetuously. “ And when 
I found that you were free again, I only waited to give 
Gerard a fair chance, and followed you at once. I wrote 
to you twice, and had no answer; and I took your silence 


293 


VALENTINE STEANGE. 


as the strongest negative. It seemed cruel — I can’t say I 
didn’t think it cruel. By what terrible mischance they 
missed you, I can’t guess. But — would you have left me 
in such bitter suspense had you received them? Would 
you have been so disdainful and so cold?” 

It seemed now, as he spoke, so hard a thing to have left 
unanswered the one she had received, that she did not dare 
confess that she had read it. 

“ I am sorry if I seemed discourteous,” she said in an- 
swer; “ I am sorry if you have suffered.” 

“ If I suffered?” cried Yal. “ When I thought you dis- 
dained my presumption too much to answer by a word! 
When I have thought so for a month past!” 

“ I am sorry,” she faltered again. 

“Constance!” said Yal, “Heaven knows I did not seek 
this meeting!” that was true enough, in a sense; but he 
had hoped for it, and the nebulous fancy that it might 
come had led him to the headland. “But since Fate has 
thrown me in your way, I will not resist -her bidding. If 
you don’t care for me, and I go on persecuting you in this 
way, I am the most horrible cad alive? But I can’t help 
taking the risk. Tell me that you don’t care for me at 
all; tell me that you are happy, and I will go away, and 
never trouble you again!” How could she tell him to go, 
when her heart yearned so over him? Yet she made a lit- 
tle struggle still. 

“I am very sorry to give you pain,” she murmured. 

“ Tell me the plain truth,” said Val masterfully. “If 
you are happy, send me away. If you care for me, I will 
never give you up. I will hold you against the world. 
Tell me the plain truth, and let me go.*” 

“ Mr. Strange,” she answered falteringly, “ our paths 
are ordered for us, and they are wide apart” 

“Not unless you order that it shall be so,” he said 
doggedly. “ You shall give me a plain answer.” 

She had no answer ready. During the whole of their 
colloquy she had scarcely dared look at him, and since the 
talk had become earnest, their eyes had not met once. 
But now her gaze rose slowly to his face, and though her 
eyes met his for but a second and were dropped again, the 
longing in them smote him through and through, and he 
seized her unresisting hands, (< You love me!” he panted 
—“von love rue!” 


VALEKTIHE STRAHGE. 


299 


What answer could she give him? It was true. Her 
bosom began to heave, and her cheeks grew pale, and one 
or two great tears rolled down them. 

“ Shall we part?” he asked her, fiercely. “Will you 
wreck two lives? No!” And he cast his arms about her 
in a mad defiance and strained her to his breast. She # was 
conquered, and she knew it, and he knew it. Yet even 
then, in the first wild joy of certainty, the world's probable 
verdict arose before him. Well, he defied it. It was 
surely better to spoil one life than three — especially when 
the life to be spoiled was not his, but another's. 

But even whilst they stood there, a voice reached their 
ears, crying “Constance!” Yal released her, and they 
stood with pale faces looking at each other. The voice 
was Gerard's, and was not more than a couple of hundred 
yards away. It was not loud, but modulated a little, as if 
the lover did not choose altogether to cry out her name, 
and felt a certain shyness in the act; but in the dead still- 
ness of the summer air they heard it clearly. Then they 
heard the searcher try another tack. He began to sing, 
and they knew that La donna e mobile was meant to guide 
the wanderer toward him. 

“ Go!” said Constance. “ Do not let him find us here.” 

“ You love me?” questioned Val, half fiercely still. 

“ Yes,” she answered. “ Go.” 

“Come with me,” he whispered; and, treading like a 
thief, he led her round the great bowlder under which they 
had been standing all this time, and by a zigzag way up- 
ward, keeping shelter and then by a zigzag way down- 
ward, until she saw the* Hollow below, through the waving 
branches of the trees. The voice grew more and more dis- 
tant as it sung along the little rocky pass. 

“ Leave me now,” whispered Constance. “ Let me go.” 

“ You love me? Tell me that you love me.” 

“Yes. Let me go.” 

“You will write to me. We shall meet soon?” 

“Yes.” And she was gone, pausing awhile in the wood 
to compose herself. A moment or two later she walked 
serene into the swarded Hollow, and came round the bowl- 
der which held down the imprisoned princess of the local 
fairy-tale. 

“ Where have you been, my dear?” asked motherly Mrs. 
Lumby. “ Gerard has gone away to look for you. Mr. 


300 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Lumby lias been asking for you. " And the girl followed 
Gerard's mother to one of the striped tents where in an 
arm-chair sat the head of the great House in the City, and 
smiled and nodded at her in a fashion somewhat childish. 
It seemed scarcely like that he would ever recover his old 
self; but he had mended wonderfully since the beginning 
of the brighter weather, and knew the faces of his friends. 
The old man was very fond of Constance, and was never 
happier than when she and Gerard were near him. He had 
contrived to make out in a dim way that the great House 
was not ruined after all, but his comprehension of affairs 
was like that of a child, and as }^et pathetically incomplete. 
Milly sat smilingly on one side of him, and had been with 
him all morning, prattling to him of the things he could 
understand. As she greeted the wrecked old man, a great 
pang passed through Constance's heart, and she kissed him 
with tears in her eyes. Motherly Mrs. Lumby took this for 
pity for Gerard's father, born of the girl's love for Gerard, 
and she kissed Constance warmly; and the old man smiled 
his heart-breaking childish smile and said: “ I am glad you 
are fond of each other." All this made the ] 30 sition ter- 
rible for Constance. 

Val, having parted from her, turned his back upon the 
Hollow, and having wandered a little way, came to a 
heathery spot, in which he cast himself down and tried to 
think. His fierce joy had already faded, and he began to 
face the situation with a sense of fear. Popular opinion 
was something to him, and he knew that it would be 
against him. This, of course, gave him no actual pause, 
but it cooled his triumph. And then there was Gerard and 
his stricken father. Yal knew how fond the old man had 
grown of Constance; and he was not a brute, and felt some- 
thing of the pain he would inflict upon those who had al- 
ready so keenly suffered. Then Reginald's tongue had 
lashed Yal's foibles once or twice, and he respected the 
stanch little man's opinion of him, and dreaded his disdain. 
And one thing was certain. If Val knew anything of hu- 
man character — and he prided himself, 'as most men do, on 
knowing a good deal — he would have a bitter enemy in the 
man he was robbing. Against Gerard's grief, or possible 
grief, of course Val's own egotism shielded him. It was 
better that Gerard should be wounded than that he himself 
should. Cela va sans dire . Let us not be bitter. We 


VALEKTINE STKAHGE. 


301 


have all thought so in our day, over this matter or that; 
arid if we have never stolen another man's lover from him, 
why, that may not have been our particular temptation. 
And perhaps some of us have done, or attempted, even 
that. Most of us live in glass houses, though we build) 
them in different patterns. 

Mechanically, as lie lay there in his heathery nook, Yal 
drew out a cigar, struck a fusee, and began to smoke. 
Gerardos wanderings brought him that way in the course of 
some five minutes, and the scent of the fusee still lingering 
heavily on the air, he beat round for the smoker. As he 
came, he chanted in a deep and jovial bass: 

“Shepherds, tell me, tell me, 

Have you seen — have you seen my Celia pass this way? 
Cheeks lily-white, lips rosy-red” — 

and the rest of it. There was no touch of fear or suspicion 
in his mind; and the bright air, the quivering sunfiecks, 
the birds* glad chorale, the dancing leaves, were each and 
all ministers of pleasure to him. So he threw back his 
shoulders and opened his chest, and rolled out the air of 
the glee in a mellow roar like that of an amiable tuneful 
lion, and came bursting through the boughs on the little 
clear space where Yal lay. The smoker made no effort to 
escape him this time, and knowing, by the sudden cessation 
of Gerard's voice, that he was seen, he said, without turn- 
ing round: “That you, Lumby?" 

“Why, Val, old chum!** cried Gerard, joyously, “I 
thought you were on the bounding deep, aboard the 
‘ Mew*s-wing.* What brings you here, you ancient mari- 
ner — playing at Diogenes?'* 

“ The master of the confounded craft has got the q>ip, or 
something of the sort," growled Yal. 

Gerard came and sat beside him, and demanded a cigar. 
Val supplied him, and lay silent. Here was the first diffi- 
culty. If the action he had begun should be carried out — 
and he had no dream of relinquishing it — Gerard should 
know. Honor bade, that at least, at least he should tell 
his rival of his intent, and let him know that his happiness 
was threatened. But looking at his rival's happy face, he 
felt too much a coward so to wound him. “It's like stab- 
bing a sleeping man," he thought, with an awful inward 
spasm of reluctance, “ to steal her from him without warn- 


302 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


ing him. I must give him a chance of an appeal. My 
only possible atonement to him is to tell him openly that 
he has lost her, and will have to surrender her. If I do 
that, I can face him. If I don’t do it, I am a dastard. ” 
But in spite of the fact that he could speak thus strongly 
to himself, he could not bring his tongue to speak one word 
to Gerard. 

“ Are you come to join our picnic, ancient mariner?" 
asked Gerard. 

“No,” said Val. “I came out by mere chance for a 
stroll, and wandered further than I meant. I have busi- 
ness to see to; and, by the way” — drawing out his watch 
and looking at it — “ I shall be late already.” 

“ I must go, too,” said Gerard, bethinking him again 
of Constance. “ Ta-ta, if you won’t come. See you again 
soon, eh? You’ll dance at the wedding on the first of 
July, won’t you?” 

Val hid his face and searched his pockets. 

“I shall count on you, you know. Good-bye.” 

“All right,” cried Val. He could have shot himself for 
his own baseness. “ Good-bye.” 

Gerard was gone, and began his chant again between the 
whiffs of his cigar: “Shepherds, tell me, tell me.” The 
voice died away in the woods; and Val cast himself upon 
the heather once more. “Miserable coward!” he cried. 

The Primrose W ay was scarcely pleasant traveling even v 
now. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

HIS EEET WERE IN THE PRIMROSE WAY, AND HE HAD 
NOT THE HEART TO LEAVE IT. 

I have omitted to tell of an encounter between Val and 
Gerard, in which Val received as many and as hearty 
thanks for the service he had rendered as the most exigent 
of men could have expected. Gerard took the restoration 
of the money of his friend almost as if it had been a gift. 
He associated the recovery of love, fortune, and happiness 
with Val Strange, and longed for an opportunity to show 
his good-will to his chance benefactor. On his side, the 
long-standing friendship between them rose to white-heat, 
and stayed there, for Gerald’s enthusiasms were neither 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


303 


easily excited nor quick to cool. In the expressions of his 
regard and affection, he did not seem altogether gracious — 
feeling it hard to speak out where he felt so keenly. He 
blundered through with inter jectory ejaculations of “ Old 
fellow,” and “ Old man,” the rough clumsy amity touch- 
ing Yal to the quick all the while, knowing what he had 
meditated against his friend’s peace. 

“I owe you more than the money, old man,” the grate- 
j ful recipient of new fortune had told him. “ You know. ” 
j That was all he could say on that matter; but the blush on 
his honest face and the ashamed tenderness of his eyes, 
were eloquent even to his rival. Yal of course pooh-poohed 
the notion of gratitude. 

“My dear Gerard,” he had answered, “you owe me 
nothing. ” (He knew well enough what Gerard owed him. ) 
“ You don’t want to insult me by supposing that I might 
have bargained with you for the papers.” 

That was so ridiculous, that even in the tremor of his 
gratitude Gerard had burst into a great shout of laughter 
at it, and had struck a jovial hand in Val’s and gripped 
him hard. 

As he lay in the heather after Gerard’s departure, the re- 
membrance of this scene forced itself upon him. “ He has 
got the money, hang him!” said Yal moodily. “ If I 
hadn’t been so ridiculously Quixotic and punctilious about 
it, I might have saved myself this humiliation; I might 
have saved Constance from the talk of every old tabby in 
the county, and everything would have been open and 
above-board. ” He began to think somewhat bitterly and 
angrily of Gerard, and to feel that his hitherto successful 
rival stood somewhat unduly in his way. It is the most 
natural thing in the world to hate a man if you intend to/ 
injure him. In such a case, hatred is a sort of spiritual 
corn. If you allow your boots to pinch your toes, nature 
protects them — and grows corns. If you propose to pinch 
your soul, by damaging a man who never harmed you, your 
moral nature protects itself by hatred. And in each case 
the protection is a source of considerable discomfort. “He 
has got the money,” said Yal again; “ confound him! That 
ought to be enough for him. It was a piece of amazing 
luck to get it, and he may be satisfied with what he has. 
And what right ” — and here Val began to think himself on 
stronger ground — “ what right has ne to wreck a woman’s 


304 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


life?” He began, on the strength of that reflection, to feel 
himself virtuous. And he had at least the assurance from 
Constance's own lips that she loved him. To marry an- 
other man in such circumstances would be — he scarcely 
cared to characterize it with Constance in his mind. And 
so, by steps almost imperceptible, the unhappy Val went 
downward toward hatred and dissimulation, and justified 
himself as he went. 

Mr. Lumby was not long at the picnic, being still a little 
weak in body as in mind. It was one of the pleasant 
characteristics of Lumby Hall that nearly all the servants 
were old family belongings. The parlor-maid, for instance, 
was the daughter of a coachman and a cook who had 
made a match of it, and retired from servitude at the Hall 
after growing up there from stable-boy and kitchen-maid. 
The present coachman had been stable-boy; the butler had 
been pantry-boy; the footman had been a page in the old 
house. All the servants were held by ties of old associa- 
tion to the place, and one or two of them had felt the 
triumph of the rehabilitation of the family as though it 
had been a matter personal to themselves. One of these 
attached old servitors gave Mr. Lumby his arm as they 
walked down the gentle slope of sward which led from the 
Welbeck Hollow to the lower meadows. There the car- 
riage waited, and with Milly by his side, Mr. Lumby drove 
away. The young people kept the thing going until a late 
hour. On the tombstone of the poor princess, a great 
bonfire was lighted as the shades of evening fell; the trees 
round the beautiful little circle were stuck full of Chinese 
lanterns; the band played and the guests danced and made 
love, and otherwise enjoyed themselves. There were 
seniors enough present for the preservation of the proprie- 
ties, and not enough to damp the hearty hilarity of the 
time. Gerard, when everything was over, surrendered 
Constance to Eeginald's care, and drove his mother home. 
To his surprise, the old man was sitting up to receive them, 
and in answer to remonstrances, declared that he felt well 
and strong. He had insisted on re-hearing from Milly the 
whole story of the recovery of the lost papers, and had 
grasped it more clearly than before, and now he was quite 
full of the approaching wedding. 

“Gerard, my lad,” with feeble cheerfulness, “you must 
have a bachelor party before you are married. I had a 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


305 


bachelor party. You must ask Valentine Strange. We 
owe everything to Valentine Strange, and I always liked 
him. I was always very friendly with his father and his 
uncle in their day. We must have Valentine Strange." 

Gerard and his mother were both so happy in the old 
man’s recovery that festivity seemed natural to them. 
And why should not Gerard give a party to his bachelor 
friends before he finally left .their circle and became a Ben- 
edick? It befell that Val received an invitation to that fes- 
tival within eight-and-forty hours of his interview with 
Constance, and that it came by the post which bore to him 
the first letter he had ever received from her. The wed- 
ding was already fixed for the first of July, and Gerard's 
farewell to bachelorhood was naturally fixed for the preced- 
ing evening, the thirtieth of June. And here was the 
month already. 

On the morning that these two missives arrived, Val had 
received an unusually large batch of letters. His hopes of 
hearing from Constance had risen by this time to exasper- 
ation, and he ran feverishly through the bundle in search 
of a lady's handwriting. In his haste, he passed two 
epistles as one, and Gerard's invitation was among the first 
letters he opened. He glared over it, and felt stricken. 
Old Lumby had written a postcript to it with his own 
shaky hand. “Your father and your uncle," he said, 
“were dear friends of mine. You must come to my son's 
party." He had signed this brief and shaky message, 
“ Your grateful servant." The Stranges were not without 
their debt to the Lumbys, Val remembered; and whatever 
happened did but seem to make the enterprise he was bent 
on look darker. He was none the less bent upon it; but 
he rebelled, naturally enough, against the gathering host 
of circumstances which made him feel criminal. His 
was a mission of knight-errantry. He was going to save 
Constance from a life-long slavery and misery; and for a 
knight-errant to have his conscience throwing mud at him 
as though he were a thief, was decidedly unpleasant. The 
almost piteous gratitude of the broken old man hurt him, 
and appealed pathetically against his purpose. 

“ I shall have to tread on the old man to get at her," he 
thought, and he began to dislike the old man for lying 
there to be trodden on. Why would people get in a knight- 
errant's way? A. knight-errant prancing along among 


306 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


primroses to rescue his appointed imprisoned damsel had a 
right to better treatment, surely. She didn't love the fel- 
low. She loved him, Yal Strange. And yet, here were 
people blocking his road to her, and insisting on being in- 
jured by pure justice. 

But at last Yal discovered Constance’s letter. He did 
not know her handwriting, but he knew the crest on the 
envelope, and he tore the missive open with trembling 
fingers, and read this: 

“ Dear Mr. Strange, — We have both been foolish. I 
appeal to your honor. Allow me to forget. Yours truly, 

“Constance Jolly.” 

Now, this of course was absolutely maddening, and in the 
circumstances, the recipient felt himself justified in the 
employment of a good deal of strong language. Yal was a 
gentleman, and by all rules of courtesy, a gentleman is for- 
bidden to swear over a lady’s letter. But Yal gave way, and 
raged, and then sat down crushed for a moment, but re- 
covering himself, began to cast about in thought for a 
means of untying this knot. He felt the delicacy of Con- 
stance’s position; he began, even in a minute or two, to see 
how well this coyness became her, and to feel that he 
would be very much worse than unheroic if, because of such 
a check as this, he drew back from his enterprise. So he 
caught up a pen, drew a sheet of paper to him, and began 
to write. Words came easily, and he filled three or four 
pages with protestations. 

“No,” he said suddenly; “expenditure of words in a 
case like this is waste of power. ” So he wrote simply : 
“ We love each other, and I will not surrender you.” He 
initialed that Caesar-like dispatch,' and having inclosed it 
in an envelope, was about to address it, when it suddenly 
occurred to him that his handwriting would be known, 
and that some inquiry might be created by it. He tried to 
feign a lady’s hand; but even to his own eye the fraud was 
too transparent to deceive anybody. He set his wits to 
work to find a way through this difficulty, and after a 
minute or two of thought he saw it. He looked at his 
watch, consulted a time-table, rang the bell, and ordered 
the dog-cart for the railway-station. Driving thither, he 
took train for Bristol, desperate with impatience on the 


VALEXTIXE STRAXGE. 


307 


journey. Arrived, lie took a hansom, and drove to an 
hotel he knew, a quiet and retired house, with an old- 
fashioned clientele. His uncle had-heen wont to stop there, 
and Val was known. He ordered luncheon, and made a 
feint of eating, and descended for a chat with the land- 
lady. “ By the way,” he said, casually, “did my maiden 
aunt ever stay here?” The talk had been going on for 
some time, and this query was dropped with considerable 
artfulness. 

“ I didn't know you had a maiden aunt, Mr. Strange,” 
said the landlady. 

“Didn't know I had a maiden aunt?” said Val. “Non- 
sense!” 

“'Upon my word, I didn't,” returned the landlady, 
laughing. “ Why didn't she get married?” 

“ That's not my business, Mrs. Oakley,” said Val, lightly. 
“ But ” — drawing the envelope from his pocket — “ I have 
a little joke for her here. I don't want her to know from 
whom it comes. Will you address it for me?” 

“ Valentine's-day has gone by, Mr. Valentine,” said the 
landlady. “I hope you're not going to plague her.” 

“Not at all,” said Val. “I think I'm going to jilease 
her. Do address it. She won't know your handwriting, 
and of course she would know mine.” 

The landlady took the envelope, and sitting down, dipped 
her pen in the ink. “ Tell me the address,'' she said. Val 
gave Constance's address, and the landlady wrote it flow- 
ingly. 

“ Thank you,” said Val. “ And now give me a postage- 
stamp, if you please.” He stamped the letter, and dropped 
it into the post-box in the hotel lobby. “ That will pass 
unsuspected,” lie said to himself; and after a little further 
talk, designed to cover his retreat, he drove back to the 
station, and turned up at Brierham in time for dinner. A 
day or two went by, how heavy and monotonously you may 
guess; and Constance, struggling with herself, refused to 
be drawn into a correspondence fraught with so much 
danger. Outside the magnetic influences of Val's presence, 
she could control herself, and could call pride and honor 
to her aid. During this time/ Gerard experienced curious 
treatment at her hands. She was languid and cold at one 
moment, and warm and eager the next; and he, being with- 
out the key to the puzzle, was perplexed by the extraor- 


308 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


dinary variations of her manner. Constance tried hard to 
compel herself to some tenderness toward Gerard which 
should seem to herself to commit her to him irrevocably, 
and this struggle naturally bred a reaction of languid 
coldness. This also in its turn reacted, and in her self- 
reproach she was once or twice amazingly sweet and tender 
to him, and looked at him with such eyes, that he could 
read nothing but love in them. His own willingness to 
read that sweet message helped the deceit; and his constant 
patience under her coldness, his simple manly loyalty, and 
the downright sincerity of his worship, were not without 
their effect upon her. 

Ho answer coming to his Csesar-like dispatch, Yal began 
to grow nervous about it, and to fear that he had overdone 
authority. And all this time the fatal day w T as drawing 
nearer, and Iieginald's knowledge forbade Val the house, 
or he would have gone thither and made an opportunity for 
seeing her. This being out of the question, he wrote a 
•long letter of appeal and protest, and putting the old ruse 
in action through a new medium this time, again had it 
forwarded under a female hand. Constance shed many 
bitter tears above the lines he had penned; but she kept a 
resolute silence. Some anger began to rise in her heart at 
his persistency, even whilst she valued it as a proof of the 
love she prized so dearly, and felt to be so disloyal. But 
everything was binding her closer and closer to her own 
spoken bond with Gerard. Her parents* affection, the 
general understanding that the marriage was settled, the 
very imminence of the ceremony itself, the suffering Gerard 
and his people had .already undergone, the congratulations 
of her friends on her lover's recovery of his old station, and 
the renewal of the- match — she felt powerless to struggle 
against all the accumulated influences. And so, Yal began 
to anger her because he had power to pain her. .He, 
meanwhile, unconscious of the influences which molded 
her conduct, or weighing them imperfectly, sat in the 
shadow of his own egotism, by this time grown monstrous, 
and in its gloom saw nothing but itself. Constance's mar- 
riage with Gerard could be nothing, to his mind, but a 
hideous and shameful sacrifice, and at all hazards he was 
ready to stop it. But how? The days w r ent on, and he 
was powerless, and to add to his miseries, Gerard came over 
a week before the date appointed for the wedding, and see- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


309 


ing how Val had lost his old cheerfulness and jollity, in- 
sisted upon his going over to Lumby Hall, and staying 
there with the guests who had already begun to arrive in 
view of the impending ceremony. 

“So be it," said Yal at length, overborne by Gerard's 
reiterated friendly pressure. He was kindly and gentle by 
nature, but he was half murderous in his feelings toward 
this blundering, genial, happy rival, who thus insisted on 
flouting his happiness in his face. Gerard had driven over, 
and nothing would satisfy him but that Yal should at once 
drive back with him, and take up his abode at Lumby 
Hall until the wedding. The other accepted this pro- 
gramme in desperation, and gave orders that the necessary 
things should be packed at once. Perhaps even this move, 
mad as it appeared, might lead to something. The two 
young fellows drove from Brierham to Lumby Hall to- 
gether — the one all joy and friendship, the other all despair 
and hatred, which he dared not show. To Val's surprise, 
Hiram Search received him. He had the keenest memory 
for faces, and knew him at once. The circumstances in 
which he and the Yankee adventurer had met and parted 
were not altogether soothing to his self-respect, and though 
under ordinary conditions he would have forgotten and for- 
given, he was so tender now that even so slight a matter as 
this made him sore. 

“ You have met Mr. Strange once before, eh. Search?" 
said Gerard, who was in high good spirits. 

“I remember the fallow," said Yal, haughtily, neither 
knowing nor caring that he renewed the disagreeable im- 
pression he had at first sight created. Why should he care, 
whatever Hiram or anybody like him might think or feel? 
It was his ordinary habit to be courteous to all men, and 
his misfortune that he met Hiram in this unusual and ab- 
normal mood. 

“Look after Mr. Strange," said Gerard; “there's a 
good fellow." Hiram did not care to valet Mr. Strange, 
and this was the first disagreeable he had encountered 
since coming to Lumby Hall. But he obeyed nevertheless; 
and having seen Val's belongings taken upstairs, began to 
unpack his portmanteau, when out fell a large envelope 
with exceedingly frayed edges. Across this envelope were 
written in characters of unusual clearness, these words: 
“Thy grace being gained, cures all disgrace in me." 


310 


VALENTIHE STKAtfGE. 


Hiram saw them,, and thought nothing of them; but catch- 
ing up the envelope* a portrait slipped out of it. He had 
seen Constance more than once* and the portrait was too 
true to be mistaken. What brought Mr. Strange with a 
portrait of Gerard Lumby's sweetheart? And what was 
the meaning of the inscription on the envelope: “ Thy 
grace being gained* cures all disgrace in me”? Hiram 
was unfavorably impressed with Mr. Strange* and was 
ready to believe evil of him. This little event of the photo- 
graph affected him* therefore* somewhat unduly. 

And now* as the least imaginative of men may fancy* 
Vai s position began to be unbearable. Any further ap- 
proach to Constance was impossible; and though she had 
confessed that she loved him* the confession seemed only 
to have set her apart from him the more determinedly. 
At Lumby Hal lhe had almost as much freedom as he would 
have found at home* and in the after-dinner dusk he used 
to absent himself from the jovial party in the smoking- 
room* and prowl round Daffin Head* and stare at the lights 
in the house* feeling like the Peri who at the gate of Para- 
dise stood disconsolate* One afternoon* when the mar- 
riage had grown so perilously near that his head swam and 
his heart failed to think of it* he wandered on the custom- 
ary way* hoping* in spite of despair* that some avenue yet 
might open* when a trim little figure came tripping along 
the country-road* and he recognized a late fellow-passenger* 
the girl he had befriended at Southampton. She knew 
him* and made him an odd little obeisance* half nod* half 
courtesy; and he seeing that she came away from the 
Grange* seized eagerly at the poor straw of hope her presence 
afforded. 

“ Good-afternoon*” he said awkwardly. “ I think I re- 
member you.” She repeated the composite obeisance* 
and smiled and blushed with pleasure. “ You don’t live 
in this part of the country* surely?” 

“ I am Miss Jolly's maid at the Grange* now*” said little 
Mary innocently. Val's heart gave a great leap* and his 
eyes flashed; but he controlled himself. 

“ Oh*” said Yal; “ and how did you come to be there?” 

Mary blushingly informed him that Mr. Search had rec- 
ommended her to Mr. Lumby. 

“ Will you do me a little favor?” asked Yal* with as lit- 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 311 

tie agitation outwardly as though the favor had been the 
smallest in the world. 

“HI can, sir," said little Mary. She was ready to fly 
to serve him. 

“ I want you to meet me at the gate of the Grange in an 
hour and a half. That will be ten o’clock. Will you give 
a note to Miss Jolly for me, if I bring it then?" 

“ Oh yes, sir, with pleasure," said Mary. 

“ I don’t want anybody else to see it," said Yal. “ No- 
body else must know of it. Now can I trust you to be 
discreet?" Mary promised the utmost discretion; and Yal 
sped back to the Hall, and wrote his last appeal, begging 
Constance to meet him, if but for a moment, to appoint 
her own time and place, and give him but a word. 

Eound the foot of Welbeck Head, across the little bay 
beyond and up at the Grange, was a very pretty bit of rus- 
tic walk, and Mr. Search, who was not without an eye to 
nature, strolled there in the cool, with his hat a good deal 
on one side, and a cigar between his teeth. Val passed 
him swiftly, and was a little savage to see him there, with- 
out being conscious of any very precise reason for anger. 
Hiram, unreasonably angry, and unreasonably suspicious, 
continued walking, to see what took him in the direction of 
the Grange. The Yankee was, as times go, an honorable 
man, and he did not care to dog anybody; but he excused 
himself — he was walking that way already before Val 
passed him. “There’s no call on me to turn," he said, 
“unless I’ve got a mind to.” Before the gate of the 
Grange, the dark figure ahead of him seemed to pause for 
a second, but for a second only. “If he comes back this 
way," said the guilty Hiram, “he’ll think I’ve been spy- 
ing on him :’’ and deviating from the road, he strolled in 
the faint misty moonlight across the fields, accusing him- 
self somewhat in his thoughts for having suspected his em- 
ployer’s friend. 

But Val in that momentary pause at the gate had thrust 
the note into Mary’s hands, with just two or three hasty 
whispered words: “ Let no one see it. I will wait for an 
answer. ’’ The maid carried the note to her mistress, who 
was in her own room. Constance read it, and could not re- 
sist the temptation its summons brought her. She muffled 
herself hastily in a gray shawl, stole tremulously down- 
stairs; and found the dining-room deserted; with its windows 


312 


VALENTIN E STRANGE. 


open on the lawn. Slie stepped out into the night, passed 
round the house silently like a ghost, and sped with a heart 
that sounded an impetuous alarm, along the darkened path. 
Val, who had marked that he was followed, had seen Hi- 
ram off the field, and was by this time back at the gate 
again, standing in the shadow of the trees within the drive. 

“ Constance!” he whispered. She stopped short, and he 
approached her and folded her in his arms. “ My love, my 
love!” he murmured. “ My heart w r as breaking to see you. 
Why were you so cruel? Why did you leave me unanswer- 
ed?” And when she would have answered him, he stopped 
her lips with kisses. “ You love me,” he murmured again. 
“ Why should you break two hearts, and blight two lives? 
I know you love me. I will not let you go. ” This mas- 
terful and peremptory wooing is not the way with all 
women; but if the right man adopt it, it rarely fails. And 
Constance in his arms found the urgent voices of duty and 
honor suddenly gone dumb, and her tired heart at rest. 
“ Here,” she thought, “ is my place after all.” 

“It is too late to go back,” said Val. “You love me, 
and you can never be happy without me. And I will not 
live or try to live without you. ” She began to cry and to 
cling to him, and to protest — she had been so unhappy — so 
unhappy. How was a poor girl to know where duty lay? 
It was terrible to think of marrying Gerard. She told Val 
as much, and he kissed her anew with passionate triumph. 
Should she write to him, and say so, even now in these last 
days of hope? she asked. But her father wished the match, 
and her brother and her aunt were favorable to it. She 
would have to endure so much shame in breaking it off at 
this late hour. What could be done? 

Even yet it was not too late to pay some little tribute to 
honor. Even yet, Val might have played the man, and 
have told Gerard the plain truth, and faced his indignation 
and his misery. But his feet were in the “ Primrose Way,” 
and he had not the heart to leave it. 


CHAPTEK XXXIX. 

“ALL IS READY,” SAID VAL, QUIETLY, “TELL YOUR 
MISTRESS. ” 

It was the last night in June, and a score of jovial 
young gentlemen were making merry at Lumby Hall. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


313 


There were two elders with them — Mr. Lumby and Mr. 
Jolly, and but one of the invited guests were absent. The 
ladies staying at the Hall to attend the morrow’s ceremony 
were a little aggrieved by the bachelor party, and the 
drawing-room was dull. The general feminine opinion was 
unfavorable to Mr. Lumby’s projection; but the old gen- 
tleman himself was in a high-feather amongst the young 
fellows gathered about his son, and knew nothing of the 
muffled petticoat rebellion. He was growing stronger 
every day, and had already, without much mental difficul- 
ty, gone through terms of settlement with the lawyer, 
making over half his share in the City House to Gerard. 
He sat there and sipped a glass of wine, and chatted gayly, 
if somewhat childishly, for a time, and then withdrew, 
leaving the bride’s father to keep the younger blood in 
order, if it should need a restraining hand. The elder 
Jolly was glorious, and had assumed so juvenile an air, 
that beside the bald-headed Reginald he looked young, and 
the two might almost have changed relationships. 

* e Where on earth is Y al Strange ?” cried Gerard. * c Don’t 
any of you men know?” 

“There’s been something odd about Yal lately,” said 
one of the guests; “1 began to think yesterday that he had 
a tile loose.” 

Reginald thought that possibly he might be able to throw 
a little light on the reason of Val’s absence. If you love a 
woman yourself, it is not altogether easy, at the last mo- 
ment of losing her, to congratulate the man who carries her 
away from you ; and the difficulty seemed likely to be increased 
when the congratulations were expected to extend over the 
time occupied by a dinner and an evening meeting like the 
present. So that, knowing what he did, it would have 
been easy to explain Yal’s late eccentric conduct — if it had 
not been impossible to offer such an explanation. 

At this sort of gathering there are generally one or two 
people who are eager to make speeches. The elder Jolly 
w T as absolutely overflowing with Disraelian eloquence, but 
he had to save himself for the effort of the morrow. He 
had written his speech, and had committed it to memory; 
and it was his belief that this oratorical effort, when it came 
to be produced, would sparkle like fire-works. The audi- 
ence would include a good many of the county magnates, 
and he felt that they would be almost worthy to listen to 


314 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


liis carefully prepared impromptus. A bashfully eager 
gentleman in a corner was being urged by his companions 
to rise; and had at length, in spite of himself, given so de- 
cided a negative, that the attempt to persuade him had been 
almost abandoned, when Mr. Jolly, discerning that beyond 
a doubt the tide of speech-making, if it once set in, would 
drift his way, burned so eagerly for a chance, that he beat 
a tumbler upon the table, and cried: “ Gentlemen, Mr. 
Whetham is longing to address us.” The Cicero of the 
corner coterie being thus publicly signaled out for attention, 
arose, smiled vacuously, played in a degage fashion with 
his watch-chain, and with a curious springy motion in the 
legs, unburdened his soul in manner following: “ Gentle- 
men all. And- Mr. Jolly. Had extreme happiness — know- 
ing — friend — Lumby — years. No hesitation — saying — ad- 
mirable fellow — calculated — perform — duties — citizen — 
most satisfactory manner. Call upon you — therefore — 
drink his health — musical honors, lieally sorry — can’t ex- 
press — feelings — overwhelming at the moment — more flow- 
ing language. Gentlemen, Mr. Gerard Lumby.” Then 
he sat down, and wondered where his speech had gone to, 
and whilst he wondered, the toast was hailed with enthusi- 
asm, and the young gentlemen assembled sung, For he’s a 
jolly good Fellow, with such heartiness, that the startled 
domestics rose in the servants* hall, and the ladies in the 
drawing-room looked at each other in amazement. Lady 
Farham, relict of Sir Samuel, late of Mincing Lane, and 
mother-in-law to George Lumby, murmured to her mar- 
ried daughter that it was really like a tavern, and fell into 
a stony contemplation of the wall-paper, from which she 
was aroused with difficulty. She said afterward, in view 
of the events of the night, that she had quite expected a 
judgment. 

Gerard returned thanks with hearty brevity, and then 
somebody proposed the health of the bride. He was a very 
young gentleman, with a habit of saying in the duller por- 
tions of his oration — “ In short, gentlemen, as the poet 
says ” — and at these moments the guests looked toward him 
with a look as of awakening interest. But as he always 
forgot what the poet said and tailed off into prose, they 
settled back again in a manner disconcerting to the 
speaker’s ‘feelings. Finally, when the young gentleman 
had made half a dozen abortive efforts to recall the poet’s 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


315 


utterances, he sat down; and the guests cheered for the 
bride, and drank her health with much ardor; and Mr. 
Jolly arose. It was one of those supreme moments of 
temptation which occur not more than once in a life-time, 
and he yielded. He spoke the speech he had prepared for 
the wedding-breakfast; and having delivered himself, sat 
down and contemplated the draft which would be made 
upon him in twelve hours* time, and he a mental bankrupt. 
After such an effort as he had already made, he knew that 
great things would be expected of him. He had fired his 
fue de joie a day too soon, and the consciousness that he 
had no powder left was indescribably depressing. He felt 
that the reputation he had already created would be fatal 
to him. But suddenly a ray of light illumined his mind, 
and he became tranquil and even happy. He resolved that 
he would be too much affected to say anything! 

“ When the cat*s away the mice will play,** said Hiram 
Search to himself as he stepped forth from the gates of 
Lumby Hall into the softly clouded summer night. 
“ They*ll prob*ly be rather lively over at the Grange this 
evening, an* 1*11 just walk over an* have a look at Mary.** 
He lit a pipe, and walked comfortably, thinking of the 
morrow*s wedding, and the improvement it brought in his 
own chances. He would not be single much longer, though 
he was less in a hurry to marry than he had been. Not 
because his affections had in the least degree cooled, but 
because Mary was now provided for, and the old reason for 
desiring at once to assume a position in which he could pro- 
tect her had been reinoved. As members of one house- 
hold, they would be together, and Hiram looked forward to 
a period of courtship which bade fair to be extremely pleas- 
ant. He had got over half his walk, when the moon shone 
out suddenly with so charming a luster that he paused to 
observe it. As the cloud which had hitherto obscured the 
fullness of her splendor slowly sailed away, moved by some 
wind too high for him to feel its faintest breath, the broad 
silver light seemed bit by bit to drive back the shadow over 
the fields toward the sea. The moonbeams with that wall 
of retreating darkness beyond them made the distance dim- 
mer than it had been, and almost shut the water from 
sight. But suddenly they touched and silvered the foam 
pf the little breakers on the sand of the bay ; and passed 


316 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


along as if floating out to sea, and in the midst of the 
belt of light he discerned the snowy sail of a vessel as it 
rounded Daffin Head. “ I guess that’s Mr. Strange’s 
yacht,” said Hiram to himself. The little craft had been 
creeping a good deal about the coast for the past week or 
two; and Hiram, like the rest of the inhabitants of those 
parts, had become familiar with her aspect. 

In the mind of a fanciful man, thousands of odd little 
premonitions which never come to anything rise and float 
about and go again, to be forgotten. But if ever by chance 
one of these idle fancies is fulfilled, it becomes memorable, 
and erects itself into a precedent. Perhaps to Hiram’s 
mind there was an unrecognized sense of something furtive 
suddenly revealed in the little craft stealing round the 
headland in the midst of night, and being thus made visi- 
ble. He had taken a dislike to Yal Strange, and he had 
been exercised by the discovery of the photograph. There 
had been a latent feeling of resentment in his mind that 
evening at Val’s absence from his friend’s dinner-party, 
and Hiram had been inclined to think that Mr. Strange 
was “ hankering ” — that was his phrase — “ after the boss’s 
little gell.” Being thus predisposed to think ill of Mr. 
Strange, and having some ground for suspicion already, he 
absolutely surmised that the “Mew’s-wing” might be 
hauging about to carry off Constance. He smiled at the 
thought, and pooh-poohed it, and put it away, as being al- 
together too preposterous to be believed in. And yet it 
had a sort of hold upon him, and made him feel unhappy 
and discontented with himself. 

t “If there should be anythin’ in it,” he said at last, 
“what a dog I should feel if I’d neglected this curious 
kind o’ warnin’. Hoes seem kind of like a warnin’, 
somehow. Such things hev been, I know. Why, Hiram, 
s’pose you make a fool of yourself, and look into this 
matter. ’T won’t be the first time you’ve gone a fool’s 
arrand, and nobody need know what an ass you are. You 
ain’t afraid o’ me laughing at you, air you, Hiram?” He 
walked on swiftly; and bodily motion adding, as it does, 
to mental excitement, he grew out of the cheerfully cynical 
mood in which he had started, and came to something like 
genuine fear and earnestness. When he saw the lights of 
the Grange, he chose the turfy side of the lane rather than 
the resounding road, and ran crouching along as if he were 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


317 


hunting something. Near the gates he paused, and a voice 
struck upon his ear. His heart began to beat, and he 
clinched his teeth and his hands and listened. The excite- 
ment he was in was more than nine tenths self-created, and 
he knew it, and rather scorned himself for it. Strain his 
ears as he would, he could hear no more than the murmur 
of the voice, and could not make out a spoken word, until, 
to his complete surprise, he heard his own name singularly 
coupled. Two words came clearly — “ Marry Hiram ” — 
and then the voice went humming on again in audibly. 
“ Marry Hiram?” thought the listener. a Am I dreaminT 
What on airth is this?” He crept nearer, and heard the 
voice more clearly. 

“ You must know,” it said in low and urgent tones, 
“ that unless she has a female companion, she will be laid 
open to such scandalous suspicions that there will be no 
removing them. You will have no responsibility. It is 
not in your power to prevent her from going. I will land 
you at Swansea to-morrow; and directly after the wedding, 
you can return; and with five hundred pounds in hand, 
you can marry at once. Think, you foolish girl, how few 
the chances you are likely to have of making so much 
money. ” 

Hiram needed no sight of the speaker to know that it 
was Yal Strange. He seemed in a very whirlpool of amaze- 
ment, and could scarcely believe that his premonition was 
coming true, clearly as he heard the w T ords and plainly as 
they carried their own meaning. 

“ Oh,” said another voice, and though Hiram was pre- 
pared to hear it, he started at it, so that he almost betrayed 
his presence, “ Hiram would never forgive me — never ! He 
is fond of Mr. Lumby, and he spoke of him many a time 
before he went into his service. And, oh, Mr. Strange, 
you have been very kind tome” — “What was this?” asked 
the listener, with a new madness in his veins) — “ but is it 
fair to run away with her the day before the wedding?” 

“Will you come?” asked Val, impatiently. “Yes, or 
no. Five hundred pounds — think what it means — wealthy 
friends for life, who will never forget the service you have 
done them — think what it means. Will you come?” 

“ Oh, Mr. Strange,” cried Mary, “ I dare not; It all 
seems wicked, and Hiram would never forgive me.” 

• “ You are not so grateful as you pretended to be,” said 


318 


YALENT1NE STRANGE. 




Val* under his breath* but with anger in his tones. “ You 
might never have seen Hiram again but for me. What 
would you have done if I had not befriended you at South- 
ampton?" 

The listener in the midst of his amazement "breathed 
more freely. He had heard that story. So V al Strange 
was the unknown benefactor upon whom he had so often 
called down blessings in his heart. It softened somewhat 
the rage he felt against him. 

“If it were not for Hiram*" cried the girl. 

“Hush!” said Val. “Do not speak so loud. Come* 
decide. Your mistress will not move without you; and if 
you will not come* you have wrecked her life forever. Ask 
what you will. If you are trying to make the terms for 
such a trifling service higher* ask what you will. Think 
what this foolish delay may mean. Will you come?" 

“No*" said the girl* but in the voice in which the list- 
ener could read a tone of yielding. He crept nearer until 
he laid a hand upon the gray stone of the gate-way pillar. 
The gates were open* and the pair stood just within them. 
Yal pressed the yielding girl harder. 

“ Suppose somebody tried to make you marry a man you 
did not love* and Hiram wanted to save you and to take you 
away* would that be wicked? And if you had a friend who 
was too hard-hearted to come with you and save you from 
scandal* would you forgive her?" 

“I will go*" said little Mary. 

“No*” said Hiram* stepping into the moonlight; “ I 
reckon you won't." 

They stood astounded before him. Mary shrieked* and 
ran toward the house; but Yal was rooted to the spot he 
stood on. For one awful moment he expected Gerard's 
form to appear behind Hiram's* and almost listened for 
the approaches of the friend he had endeavored to betray. 
But he was no coward after all* and his nerves sprung up 
like steel as he faced the intruder. 

“What brings you here?" he asked. 

“I can't speak lightly of sacred things* Mr. Valentine 
Strange*" said Hiram; “and I won't say what hand guided 
me here to stop your villainy. But I'm here in time. 
Drop it. I sha'n't break my master's faithful heart by 
telling him the plot I lighted on. But I score off you , I 
do now* re'ly," 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


319 


“ Do you?” said Val, with desperate softness, toying with 
something that hung at his watch-chain, and glittered in 
the moonlight. “ Are you sure?” 

“I am sure of this much anyway,” said Hiram, drawling 
on the words — “I sha'n't clear out o' this 'fore you do, an' 
it'll bother you to take my boss's gell away while 1 stand 
by.” Val raised the glittering something to his lips and 
blew a soft, clear whistle. Quick as lightning, Hiram 
leaped at him, and though too late to check the call, he 
gripped his wrists like iron, and began to haul him down 
the carriage-way, resolved on holding him and alarming the 
household. They could not all be in the plot, and some 
of the men-servants would surely be ready to do a little 
for the honor of the house they served. 

“ Come here and help me,” said Val, in a soft and quiet 
voice. “Hold this fellow, and do not let him go till we 
are safe on board. ” Before the words had left his lips, 
Hiram released his hands and struck him dowm. Turning, 
he saw three seamen in the gate-way, and grasped the whole 
situation in a flash. It would take the yacht an hour to 
round the headland, and he felt sure that he could reach 
Lumby Hall in a quarter of an hour. That would give 
time to alarm Gerard, to saddle horses, and to gallop here 
and intercept the flight, or even to pull out and board the 
yacht. He stood a second, and then burst past them at a 
leap, and recovering from a stumble in the road which had 
almost wrecked his purpose, he sped down the lane like an 
arrow. 

Val was on his feet again. “Follow him!” he cried. 
“ Double across the fields, and stop him at any cost. He is 
making for Lumby Hall,” he panted, running beside his 
men, already in pursuit. “ This way, and you will cut him 
off before he reaches Welbeck Bay.” 

But as they broke through the hedge, they saw’ that Hi- 
ram, nearly a hundred yards ahead, had shot through a 
gap, and was taking advantage of the short-cut home. He 
ran like a hare, and at every stride increased the distance 
between himself and his pursuers. Val called them off, 
and they came back breathing heavily, from the brief burst 
they had made. 

“You have the luggage?” he asked. One of them an- 
swered. “ Yes." “ Run down with it to the boat at once. 
Two of you can carry it. You, Thomson, stay behind 


320 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


with me, and take care of the maid. ** It was evident that 
he had taken the crew of the yacht into liis confidence, and 
probable that he had even feared some failure in his plans. 
The two men set briskly off; and Val, leaving the third at 
a little distance from the gate-way, walked down the drive, 
stopping a moment to adjust his disordered dress. The 
back of the house was in complete darkness as he passed 
it, but there was a sound of laughter in the servants* quar- 
ters. He went by lightly, and entered at the open windows 
of the dining-room. There he found Mary. She was cry- 
ing bitterly, but with little noise. 

“ All is ready/* said Val, quietly. “ Tell your mistress.** 

“ I dare not go,** sobbed the girl. 

“ Your master will be here in half an hour,** he an- 
swered; “ and he will know that you were in the plot. 
You must go — you dare not stay!** The girl wrung her 
hands and stood irresolute. “Go!** he said, sternly; and 
she obeyed him. A minute later, Constance glided into the 
room with her maid behind her. Her hand, as she laid it 
on VaTs arm, trembled as a steel spring vibrates when 
shaken; but without a word on either side they stepped on 
to the lawn, and Mary followed, traveling the Primrose 
Way like her betters, and like them, finding it unpleasant, 
and less smooth than downright lionor*s roughest footpath. 
They glided noiselessly round the house, and noiselessly 
along the graveled carriage-drive. There, at the gate, the 
seaman came from the shadows and gave an arm to the 
weeping maid. Once in the lane, Constance walked with 
a firm step; but the high-strung tremor of her hand warned 
Yal against addressing her. Ten minutes* walking brought 
them to the shore, and they could see the boat that awaited 
them. Constance knew nothing of the alarm; but Val in 
his mind*s eye saw the long figure flying over the fields in 
the moonlight, and in his strained and exalted fancy could 
almost hear the beat of his hurried footsteps. He watched 
Hiram in fancy breasting the rise that led to Lumby Hall, 
and he saw the old friend he had so wronged, sitting happy 
and exulting in the thought of to-morrow*s happiness and 
knowing nothing of the blow the panting messenger came 
in haste to deal. Yal had won his stake, and nothing could 
come between him and Constance now; but he was so far 
from happy, that he could well-nigh have surrendered his 
triumph. Yet for her sake, if not his own, there could be 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


321 


no surrender, and he must he tender to her and true to 
her. For many a day to come, he would have to fill the 
place of all the world to her, and he vowed that he would 
do it. If the heart-service and perpetual worship of the 
man she loved could make her happy, her life should go 
without a cloud. But even as these vows rose in his heart, 
he seemed to see and hear the hurried flight that carried 
the awful news. 

“ Give me your hand, my love,” he said gently, and 
helped Constance into the boat, and leading her to a seat, 
wrapped a cloak about her tenderly. The maid followed 
with her attendant seaman. “Give way, men!” he sai'd 
gravely and quietly. The bow of the boat lay upon the 
beach; but two of the men pushed her off and leaped in as 
she floated. Val took the tiller ropes, and steered to where 
in the distance the yacht's white sails gleamed. His 
thoughts were still with the flying messenger, and followed 
him until the fatal message was delivered. “ He knows by 
this time,” he thought. It was not easy for Val Strange \ 
to be a sinner against friendship and honoi\ An almost ! 
unbearable pang ran through his heart as he pictured I 
Gerard listening to the news. 

Hiram's listening ear told him that pursuit had ceased; 
but he only laid himself out the harder, and ran until his 
chest seemed filled with fire, and every breath he drew was 
a sob. As he ran, he planned. So light a wind was blow- 
ing, that the yacht could make but little headway, and a 
well-manned boat might even take her up. At Lumby 
Hall they were as near to her as they were at the Grange, 
unless she had gone more rapidly than he counted. Hiram's 
hat had gone already in the leap through the gap, and now 
finding that the coat he wore pulled him down, he slipped 
from it; but in all his anxiety and haste, he marked the 
place where he dropped it, and resolved to return for it on 
the morrow. The incongruity of such a care at such a 
moment struck him with ridiculous force, and he had to fight 
down a half-hysterical desire to laugh. A two miles' run is 
a heavy business for a man who is out of training, and 
Hiram, before he had reached the gates, had run himself 
almost to a standstill, and his most urgent efforts took him 
scarcely faster than his average walk. But he toiled On, 
and coming near the house, made a final spurt, and dashed 


322 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


in at tlie door-way headlong. The venerable butler was 
the first to meet him, and seeing him running along the 
corridor in a half-stagger, stopped him. 

“Mr. Search!” cried the butler, in amazement, “what 
is it? Thieves!” 

“No,” gasped Hiram. “Mr. Gerard— fetch Mr. Ger- 
ard. Call him out here. Quick, quick, quick!” 

The butler, with one glance of astonishment, ran to the 
room in which the party sat assembled. Mr. Jolly had 
just arrived at that happy conclusion already recorded, 
when the old servant entered and with a flustered air whis- 
pered to his young master: “ There’s something wrong, 
sir. AVill you come out, please?” 

Gerard arose and followed him, and came on Hiram, 
leaning against the wall, sobbing for breath. The butler 
paused there, and the young man stopped also, with a look 
of wonder at HiranTs wild face and figure. 

“ Call up all your pluck,” said Hiram; “ you’ll want 
it. Valentine Strange has bolted with — ” 

“ What?” soared Gerard, and taking Hiram by the 
shoulders; lid shook him like a reed. 

“ Miss' Jolly,” gasped Hiram, and fell back against the 
wall, panting and glaring. 

The young man’s wild cry brought an inquiring face to 
the open door of the room he had just quitted. 

“ You lying villain!” said Gerard hoarsely, glaring back 
at Hiram. 

“ Gone aboard the yacht,” said Hiram, struggling so to 
speak that it was terrible to look at him. “ Don’t waste a 
minute. Go to the boats. You may catch them yet.” 

The corridor was filled. “What is it?” asked one, lay- 
ing a hand on Gerard’s shoulder. “ Nothing wrong?” 

Gerard shook him off and burst into awful laughter. 
“ This dog,” he said, turning an ashen face on Hiram, 
“ has a reputation as a humorist. He has been drinking, 
and has brought a jest home with him. ” 

“Don’t waste a minute,” gasped Hiram again, strug- 
gling upright and seizing Gerard by the arm. 

“If I thought your tale was true, you drunken rascal,” 
answered Gerard, “do you think I would take a step to 
bring her back again?” 

“ To bring her back again?” repeated Reginald, pushing 
his way through the crowd. “ Lumby, what is- this?” 


VALENTINE STRAXOE. 


323 


Gerard pointed him to Hiram, and as he did so, there 
was a look upon his face which made the messengers heart 
ache. 

“ Valentine Strange has bolted with Miss Jolly. They’re 
aboard the yacht. ” He tried to whisper, but his broken 
breath made each word a sob, and every man standing in 
the corridor heard the news. 

“There’s a pretty story isn’t it?” said Gerard, turning 
on Reginald. His face, beyond all words, was terrible to 
see. “Is it true?” he said, laying his heavy hands on the 
little man’s shoulders, and rocking him slightly to and fro 
— “ is it true?” The two men looked at each other. Such 
a look! There was not a sound heard but that of Hiram’s 
labored breathing. “ He believes it,” said Gerard. “ The 
man is her brother, and he believes it.” He threw his 
hands aloft and burst into laughter so wild and loud, that 
the frightened women-folk came streaming down-stairs, and 
the servants came up and peered into the corridor. “ Do 
you believe it?” he cried, turning upon Mr. Jolly. 

“ No, sir,” cried he. “ It’s an infamous fabrication, an 
abominable fabrication. ” He was white to the very lips; 
but it was evident that he did not believe it. “ Reginald,” 
he cried blusteringly, “deny this infamous scandal.” As 
he turned upon his son with this appeal, Gerard turned 
upon him too. 

“ Denying it will not help us, sir,” said Reginald. “ Let 
us get our carriage and go home. ” 

“What?” cried the father. “You believe it?” 

“We may be of use at home,” said Reginald doggedly. 
Even Mr. Jolly read despair in his face and Voice. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Gerard, in a loud voice, “ let us go 
back to our wine.” 

His mother struggled through the crowd, and the men 
made room for her. “Gerard!” she said, touching him. 
He fell suddenly on his knees before her, and catching at 
her hands, he burst into such weeping as no man there had 
ever heard before. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


324 


CHAPTER XL. 

“ GERARD,” HIS MOTHER HAD SAID, LOOKING WITH AN 
AWFUL FOREBODING FEAR AT HIS FACE, “ YOU WILL 
BEAR • IT FOR YOUR FATHER’S SAKE. THERE ARE 
THINGS WORTH LIVING FOR YET.” 

And so in the race of love Yal Strange won, and Gerard 
Lumby lost. After the one great outburst of grief, Gerard 
took things quietly, so very quietly, that those who knew 
him thought it dangerous. The wedding-party at Lumby 
Hall broke, as may be easily imagined, into most admired 
disorder, and took its devious way homeward in much as- 
tonishment, indignation, and sympathy. 

From the time of her first coming to the county, Con- 
stance had been unable to secure the favorable verdict 
of the feminine population. It would be, perhaps, too 
cheap a satire to say that she outshone them all, and to 
find in that file sole reason for her unpopularity. She 
was not prouder than other women; but somehow she 
looked proud, and her beautiful face and figure wore a 
seeming of haughtiness which was quite an accident of 
aspect, and had nothing to do with her nature. The 
ladies then went away with a very dreadful impression 
of her. The graver scandals her elopement might have 
caused were set at rest by the arrival of a message from 
her husband. Val had started with a special license in 
his pocket, and they had been married the day after their 
flight; not at Swansea, but at a little village on the coast 
where he had a friend who was a clergyman. Five hun- 
dred pounds seems an absurdly large sum to have offered 
as a bribe to Constance’s maid; but the fact was that 
Constance had flatly refused to move without her, and 
Mary’s obstinacy had driven Y al almost to his wits’ end. 
And he was so eager that, to secure his purpose, ten 
times the sum would have seemed nothing to him. He 
gave little Mary the check after the wedding; but she 
did not know what to do with it, and was so miserable 
and frightened when she thought of facing Hiram, that 
Constance kept her, and they sailed away together, first 
to Ireland, and afterward to the Mediterranean. Yal, in a 


VALENTINE STRAKGE. 


325 


letter to Mr. Jolly, proposed to make settlements so liberal 
upon his wife, that the old gentleman, when the first shock 
was over, began to regard the matter even complacently. 
The girl had got married any way, though it had scarcely 
been done becomingly. And she had married the wealthi- 
est man in the county after all; and what was done being 
done, Mr. Jolly felt it better to say no more about it, but 
to take the good provided, to ignore the discomforts at- 
tendant upon it, and be thankful. But being a man who 
in all things consulted the dignities and decencies of life, 
he feigned at first to be stricken quite through and through 
with grief, and sold the lately purchased Grange. It was 
given out that he was quite heart-broken; but he made a 
reasonable profit on the transaction, and was back in Paris 
in a fortnight from the date of his daughter’s flight, stroll- 
ing gayly along the asphalt, and enjoying himself hugely 
as a widower at large. 

Mrs. Lumby had at first dreaded the shock this new dis- 
aster would probably bring to her husband’s weakened mind. 
But he, reading Gerard’s quietude wrongly, was less per- 
turbed than she had feared, and indeed accepted the 
evil with an equanimity of resignation which would have 
been impossible to him in the days of mental and physical 
health. Even Gerard’s heart was a little comforted in a 
little while by the failure of the blow to wound his father. 
For himself, he bore the blow with amazing fortitude; but 
those who knew most of him liked his quiet least. To his 
father and mother and to Milly, and even to the servants, 
he was gentle and quiet, but there was a resolved sternness 
in his manner, beneath its gentleness, which was new and 
alarming. But there was only one who had real warrant 
for knowing what the quiet of his demeanor covered. This 
was Hiram. 

The terrible night of Hiram’s disclosure Gerard passed 
alone. 

“ Gerard,” his mother had said, looking with an awful 
foreboding fear at his face, “ you will bear it for your 
father’s sake. There are things worth living for yet.” 

“Yes,” he answered; “there are things worth living 
for. ” But the foreboding haunted his mother’s heart all 
night, and she lay praying and trembling, and scarcely 
dared to own her fear even to herself. There are terrors 
to which even in the recesses of our own hearts we dare 


326 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


scarce give form, and this was one of them. In the morn- 
ing, when Hiram’s story, which had never seemed to need 
any confirmation, was confirmed, Gerard rang his hell, 
and summoned last night’s messenger to his dressing- 
room. 

“.What set you upon the scent?” he asked. “Or did 
you find it out by accident?” His face was gray and hard, 
like stone, and Hiram had scarcely the heart to answer 
him. 

“ The first thing was,” he responded, after a pause, “ a 
portrait I saw in his portmanteau the day he came here.” 

“A portrait?” said Gerard. “ Whose portrait?” 

“ Miss Jolly’s,” said Hiram, fearing to pronounce the 
name, but being compelled to answer. 

“I suppose,” said Gerard, “that the portmanteau is 
still here?” 

“ I believe it is,” said Hiram. 

“Let me see it,” said Gerard, rising. “Is the portrait 
still there?” Hiram could not say. “Let us see,” his 
master said, and, turning to the door, led the way to the 
room Val Strange had occupied. “ Open it,” glancing at 
the portmanteau. Hiram obeyed, and tumbled the things 
over. The portrait was gone, but the envelope was there 
still, and Hiram held it up. 

“ It was in this,” he said. 

Gerard took it from his outstretched hand, and turned it 
over, and read the inscription — “Thy grace being gained, 
cures all disgrace in me.” A short, hard laugh escaped 
him, and he folded the envelope with great care, and put 
it in his pocket-book. But half a dozen times in the course 
of the day Hiram saw him looking at it with an expression 
which betokened no good for the writer of the line. “Go 
on,” he said coldly, when he had put back his pocket-book, 
with the envelope in it. Hiram told the story as we 
know it. . 

“ Is there a gentleman in your case, too?” asked Gerard. 
“Are we in the same boat, Search?” 

“I don’t like his way of takin’ it at all,” said Hiram to 
himself, returning no audible answer to that cynical in- 
quiry. “ It looks mischeevous. ” 

“ If there should prove to be a gentleman in your case, 
what shall you do, Search?” asked Gerard. 

Hiram liked his tone and manner less than ever. “I 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 327 

shall let him slide/* he said, cc and I shall think myself 
well out of a bad bargain.** 

“ I sha*n*t let him slide, Search/* said Gerard, very, 
very softly. He had a hand on Hiram*s arm, and gripped 
it so that he made him wince. There was not another 
word spoken between them; and Gerard, though Hiram 
saw him several times reading the line on the frayed en- 
velope, never recurred to the subject. 

It need scarcely be said that the names of the runaways 
were never spoken in his presence, or that in spite of that 
fact they were much talked of. Many a time the sound of 
Gerard*s solid step hushed the talk of his mother and Milly; 
but the young fellow*s stony face never gave a sign that he 
knew the theme of their converse. Many and many an 
unspeakable pang his loyal heart suffered, but after the 
one outburst he did everything. There was much to trouble 
his mother in those hard days; but she took everything as 
women do, with that sublime and quiescent heroism which 
is the best of their many virtues. A good wife and mother/ 
— how shall she be praised? Not — though the wise man of 
old so praised her — that she seeketh wool and flax and 
worketh willingly with her hands, and, like the merchant *s 
ships, bringeth her food from afar; but yet as the wise man 
praised her, that the heart of her husband doth safely trust 
in her, and that her children have a right to arise and call 
her blessed. Though she feared for Gerard, in the un- 
natural calm he bore, she was yet not without pride in 
him. He was a man, this baby she had nursed. Oh, 
quaint and sweet and pitiful! she remembered — she saw — 
the infant almost every time she looked at the man, and 
had just such a tenderness for him now as she had when 
she nursed him, and no less a desire to protect and defend 
him. It was one of the poor soul*s griefs that she could 
protect and defend him no longer. Mothers suffer in that 
way. And yet she was proud that her son bore his grief 
manfully, and stood under Fate*s heaviest inflictions in 
this rock-like calm, that would not move till riven. 
Amongst her griefs was one which I must needs indicate; 
but I leave it with an indication and no more. From the 
time of Constance*s flight, Gerard refused to set foot in a 
church, or to sit at that decent ordinance of family worship 
which had always formed one of the household ways. In 
other matters, he did with a certain heaviness and solidity 


328 


VALENTINE STRAKGE. 


of manner, as though it were a task, what he had once 
done gracefully and naturally. He was much alone, riding 
solitary over the moors and about the coast. He liked to 
have Hiram with him at times; but he very rarely spoke to 
him. The gaunt Yankee could ride as well as he could do 
anything else, and he used to hang a little behind liis mas- 
ter, mounted on a nervous finicking thoroughbred, ruling 
him with half -unconscious skillful hand, whilst he kept his 
eyes for the most part fixed on the figure ahead of him. 
The whole country-side became familiar with Gerard, riding- 
lonely, or paired with Hiram; and the general sympathy 
was loud on his side, and deep in its condemnation of Val 
Strange. 

And now from purpling moors, and fields yellowing to 
the sickle, and a sky of English haze, let us get to the 
Mediterranean and join the wedded lovers. The sea is of 
that perfect blue which only lives in its waters. Every 
slow-heaving wave that falls against the vesseEs side looks 
hollowed from some translucent liquid jewel — the color of 
the sapphire is shallow by the side of it — and every time 
the crest tumbles over, it shakes and breaks into diamonds. 
The sunlight rains down a million little arrowy points of 
light upon the waters. There is land on each side, if those 
purple cloud-like fantasies that seem to rise and fall at 
such vast distances are really of the earth and earthy. 

Val and Constance are lolling near each other on the deck 
in cane chairs, sheltered from the sun-god^s too savage 
courtship of the sear by a canvas awning. 

“ You are sad, Val," said Constance, looking up from 
her book. 

“ Not I," said Val, brightening a little, and withdraw- 
ing his eyes from some dreamland in which, to judge by 
his looks, he had seen unpleasant things. “ Why should I 
be sad?" His looks caressed her as he turned to her. 

“ Who knows?" she said, and lay back silent for awhile. 

“ You are not sad, are you?" he asked after a pause. 

“ No," she answered with a ghost of a smile. “ Why 
should I be sad?" 

“ Like a good wife," said Val, “you base your reasoning 
on mine. " 

She smiled faintly in answer, and again they were silent. 
But in real truth they were both sad, and there was a 


VALENTINE STRAHGrE. 


329 


reason for their sadness. If a man sins, however sweetly, 
he is pretty sure to suffer for it; and now VaTsown scorn 
was master of him, and in proportion to the very virtues 
left in him, he suffered. He was never altogether free of 
Gerardos face, and the accusations it had power to bring 
against him. A dull man sins with comparative impunity. 
An imaginative man, who has a. heart to feel his own im- 
aginations, suffers out of all proportion, and is yet justly 
served, inasmuch as he has sinned more deeply, having the 
more virtue in him to sin against, and seeing beforehand 
whither he is bound. And so Yal and Constance, having 
sacrificed so much in order to be happy, were unhappy after 
all. Alas, it was always so. Of what avail can it be to 
preach a sermon here? There is no royal road to happiness, 
along which no pains shall be endured. 

Constance arose and looked over the little vessel’s side 
at the sparkling, waters; and after awhile Yal joined her. 

“ This is all very wonderfully beautiful," she said, with 
a little wave of her white hand. 

“ Yes," Val assented. 

“ What is that splendid jewel out there?" she asked. cc I 
suppose when we come nearer, we shall find it a mere rocky 
island. What is it called?" 

“I don't know, darling," said Yal, drearily. 

“ Get out your sailing maps," she said, striving to occupy 
his thoughts, “ and let us find the names of the places we 
are passing. " 

Yal obeyed her; and having descended to the cabin, re- 
turned with a roll of charts, laid them on a table, had a 
brief talk with his sailing-master, and having discovered 
the position of the yacht, began to name the islands here 
and there. Constance with forced animation stood over 
him and assisted in the search. He looked up suddenly, 
and their eyes met. Val dropped his gaze and walked to 
the side again; and as Constance bent above the charts, a 
tear fell upon them. She could not please, she could not 
soothe him; she had no power to exorcise this demon of re- 
gret. She left the deck and went below; and Val, having 
hung awhile over the rail, turned and missed her. He be- 
gan to fold up the charts, and saw the great starred tear- 
drop on one of them, and his heart fell lower and lower. 
Somewhat suddenly he lit a cigar and paced to and fro 
upon the deck. He loved her with his whole heart; there 


330 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


was nothing he would not do to make her happy, if he 
could but see his way to it. He was sure of her love in 
turn, and yet they were both moody, both unhappy. 

The French cynic proclaimed that two things were essen- 
tial to happiness — a hard heart and a good digestion. 
Though I should be inclined to widen the list a little, I do 
not think I should quarrel with the essentials. A hard 
heart is a great help to personal comfort. If you can pass 
a shivering beggar in a snow-storm and feel your own 
broadcloth no reproach to you, that is in its way a gain. 
Perhaps — human nature is perverse — perhaps you would 
rather be without the gain, though not, in spite of pity, 
without the broadcloth. This life is but a twisted skein 
for a man with a conscience. With a hard heart, great 
gift, you may push through the thin filamental knots al- 
most without an effort. If they are made of human 
nerves, the nerves are not yours. What resolute creature, 
bent on happiness, can be stopped upon his way by cob- 
webs? 

But here were two people of more than common tender- 
ness, and they suffered. The very narrowness of the life 
which, in the double egotism of their love, they sought to 
live, added to their miseries, and made ennui and regret 
inevitable. It would have been wiser to have looked for a 
refuge in society than in this loneliness; but though both 
of them knew this, neither of them altogether cared to 
say it. 

In awhile, little Mary came on deck to tell her master 
that dinner was laid in the cabin; and he descended. Fish 
and flesh of the daintiest, fruits, and wines of famous vint- 
age; and love at the table too, with manly grace and femi- 
nine beauty, and yet no joy in anything. They came on 
deck again, and found the awning cleared away, and a 
Mediterranean sunset in the skies. A miracle of color from 
zenith to horizon, and the purpled rosy golden glory flush- 
ing, though more faintly to the very east. But in the west 
from which they fleeted, the dying sun was clothed in 
splendors which were past all speech, and all the fiery sol- 
emn regalities of color in the sky were imaged in the heav- 
ing sea upon a million broken mirrors. From form to 
form, from tone to tone, from gradual change to change, 
the glory stole downward into gloom, till here and there, 
amid the shadowed wrack of skyey gallery and tower, a 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


331 


clear star shimmered, and the day was dead, and night un- 
rolled her own calm panorama. Now there were voices in 
the waves, and murmurs in the air, and mystery and dark- 
ness were abroad. The sad-hearted wedded lovers paced to- 
gether on the deck, until the mood arose, to build a new 
city in the clouds, with many a long-drawn parapet and 
frowning battlement. There are hours when every mood of 
Nature^ suits the soul, and these were of them. Val and 
Constance paused, hidden by the little deck-house from the 
man who held the wheel. They were all alone, and all the 
world to each other, but they embraced with tears, and 
cheek touched cheek coldly. There was a cry in the heart 
of each — my fault! 

“ You know I love you,” he murmured with melancholy 
tenderness. “ How can I make you happy?” 

“ There is but one way,” she answered, clinging to him. 
“Let me see you happy!” 

Sad embraces followed. The prescription was one he 
had no power to fulfill, and they both knew it. 

It was at Corfu that they first received English letters. 
There was one from Reginald to Val, which said simply: 
“ Sir, — My opinion of your conduct is probably of little 
value to you, though you do me the honor to solicit it, and 
to offer what seems intended as a defense of your own pro- 
ceedings. Perhaps, however, I shall indicate it clearly 
enough if I express my desire to hear no more of you. I 
am, sir, your obedient servant, Reginald Jolly.” This 
stung the recipient a little, but not much. A kinder fare- 
well would have been bitterer to him, for he was one of 
those men who harden at reproof, but melt at pardon. 
There was a letter for Constance from her father, in which 
he, from a heart metaphorically bleeding and broken, 
quite forgave her. He would rejoice, he said, to welcome 
her back again to that torn and shattered organ, and was 
at present living in Paris, where he would be delighted at 
any time to see her. The emotional gymnastics of this 
epistle had no effect upon the reader. She handed it to 
her husband, who, not being even yet so depressed that all 
humor was dull to him, chuckled above it with a half hol- 
low enjoyment. But Aunt Lucretia wrote a letter, which 
bore upon its pages the marks of tears, and in it, with many 
cruel upbraidings, she told Constance how the news had 
been brought to Lumby Hall, and how Gerard had received 


332 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


it. Constance would fain have left this letter unread, but 
the lines seemed somehow to fascinate her, and she could 
not get away from them. 

“What is it troubles you?” her husband asked her, 
standing near whilst she read, crying and sobbing. She 
held the letter out to him. “ Yes,” she answered, rising- 
in a sudden tempest. “It was your doing. Read it.” 
And with that, she swept from the room, dropped her veil, 
and walked out of the hotel, angry with herself, angry with 
him, and bitterly remorseful. 

Yal obeyed her injunction, and felt the sting of it be- 
fore he had gone far. “ She was right,” he said, standing 
with drooping head, with the letter at his feet, and his 
hands depending nervelessly over it. “ It was my doing, 
and the punishment belongs to both of us.” From that 
hour the unhappy wedded pair had no power to comfort or 
console each other. They went on to Constantinople in a 
wretched reserve, broken by bickerings which ended in rec- 
onciliations, but always left the breach between them a 
little wider. At one of the Pera hotels, Constance met 
friends of hers, who received her with great cordiality, and 
with them she and Yal crossed over to Cairo. The rainy 
season came on, and Val gave the party yacht-room, and 
carried them to Naples, where they proposed to winter. 
The yacht hung in the bay, and for a brief month or two 
Constance threw herself into the pleasures of society, and 
was acknowledged the reigning beauty of the place. Val 
took to short absences, little regretted on either side; and 
at last with simple coldness, outwardly, though with the 
frost of downright despair in their hearts, they parted at 
Christmas-time, and Val sailed alone up the gloomy Adri- 
atic to Venice, and left it disgusted in eight-and-forty hours, 
and sailed back to the Mediterranean, and everywhere car- 
ried his broken hopes and his remorses with him. 

About the end of January, Gerard was on a visit, when 
some people unknown to him, and knowing nothing of his 
story, came to stay in the same house with him. One of 
them told the tale of Mr. Strangers curious desertion of his 
charming wife. Mrs. Strange was fascinating all the world 
of Naples, and Mr. Strange was yachting about alone — at 
that time of year too, and was it not extraordinary? 

“ Hiram,” said Gerard that evening, “ I shall want you 
to come with me to London to-morrow.” 


VALEMTIHE STRAHGE. 


333 


Hiram quietly assented, and began to get things ready 
for the journey. 

“ If that man's come back’ again,” said the watchful 
body-guard, looking at his master's face, “ I shall have to 
keep a pretty sharp lookout to hold you out of mischief. 
Fve got my score against Valentine Strange, Esquire, - but 
I ain't goin' to see you hanged for him, mister. Not if I 
dog you like a shadder!” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

“MOTHER,” SAID GERARD OH THE EVEMIMG OF HIS 
RETURH, “I AM GOIMG ABROAD.” 

Next day, Gerard and Hiram were in London. The 
master stood with a little scrap of newspaper in his hand, 
on the hearth-rug of a cheerless room in an hotel; and the 
servant watched his countenance furtively, and drew bub 
little comfort from it. Snow had fallen in the streets, and 
the sky was leaden and cheerless. The hotel was far-away 
East, out of Hiram's knowledge of town; and he was all 
curiosity to know what was afoot, and fear lest the enter- 
prise should be dangerous for Gerard. For Hiram firmly 
believed that the young fellow had bent himself to have 
revenge upon the man who had wrecked his life; and 
though he would willingly have looked on at any such cere- 
mony as a horsewhipping, he feared that no such venge- 
ance would satisfy Gerard. 

“ Search!” 

“ Sir?” 

“Bring me my overcoat, and wrap yourself up well. 
It's a bitter day.” 

“ .More snow, I think, by and by,” said Hiram. The 
statement about the weather included almost every unnec- 
essary word Gerard had spoken to him for at least a week, 
and he was hungry for conversation. His overture met 
with no answer, however, and he retired. “ Might as well 
valet a dumb man,” reflected Hiram, “ and be deaf and 
dumb myself.” Master and man prepared to face the 
cheerless streets. “ Come with me,” said Gerard; and set 
out, Hiram following. He walked briskly eastward, paus- 
ing at times to make inquiries; and after a journey of per- 


334 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


haps a mile, stopped before a pair of great wooden gates, 
and rang a bell, the handle of which nestled in the wall, 
almost hidden by finely powdered snow. Behind the gates 
there was a great clanging of hammers on resounding iron; 
and when the small door-v T ay in the gate was opened, Hiram, 
looking through, saw a boiler-maker's yard, and men at 
work there vigorously. “ What on airth," said Hiram to 
himself, “ brings the boss to a place like this? Is he going 
to cure himself with business? Best thing he could do." 
Gerard asked a question of the man who opened the gate. 
His follower was deafened by the noise of hammers, and 
caught neither it nor the answer; but pursued him across 
a slushy yard with tracts of melting snow in it, to a count- 
ing-house which stood beside a dry-dock. Here a grimy 
personage received them, and in answer to Gerard's inquiry 
for the principal, indicated himself. 

“ You have a yacht for sale or hire?" said Gerard. 

“ Half a dozen," said the grimy principal. 

“A steam-yacht, iron-built, ‘ Channel Queen'?" 

“ Yes; for s^le or hire. Selling price, eight thousand. 
Hire — crew included — hundred and twenty a month." 

“ Can I see her?" asked Gerard. The grimy personage 
rang a bell; and a grimier than himself answering the sum- 
mons, he nodded sideways to Gerard, jerked out “ Show 
‘ Channel Queen,' " and disappeared. The new-comer led 
them into the yard. Snow had begun to fall again, and 
the place was indescribably dreary. Hiram's thoughts were 
in keeping with it; but there was one comforting reflection 
in his mind. “He means to take me with him," he 
thought; “ and he'll have to get over my body to do it 
when the time comes." Two minutes' walking brought 
them to the side of the Thames, and the grimy man raised 
his voice dolefully, and called a wherryman, who stood 
smoking and watching the dirty tide of the river, a hun- 
dred yards away, with his back against a sheltering mass of 
timber. The man hurried up. “ Show ‘ Channel Queen,' " 
said the grimy guide, and retraced his steps. The wherry- 
man grunted, and unfastening a boat that swung at the 
shiny and rotting piles upon the edge of the river, Gerard 
and Hiram seated themselves, and the man pulled across 
the river. 

“ Do you know the * Channel Queen '?" Gerard asked as 
they went. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


335 


“ Know her?” said the boatman, with a gratuitous ex- 
ecration; “ why shouldn't I know her?” 

“ Is she a fast boat?” 

“ Fast? Ay; she’s fast enough. There she is. Look at 
her. Did y’ever see a boat with them lines on her as wasn’t 
fast? Not you. Nor me neither. Screw, she is. Engines 
a bit too powerful. Jolts her like, when you drives her 
hard, her engines does. ’Eadachy sort of craft to travel in; 
but” — with other verbal gratuities — “can’t she walk!” 

“ Can’t I go on board her?” asked Gerard. 

“ Who said you couldn’t?” inquired the man ungraciously; 
and pulling nearer, caught a hanging chain. “Up you 
get,” he said, with a grin; “nobody’s a-hindering of you, 
mister.” Gerard seized the chain, and with some damage 
to his gloves, went up hand over hand, and swung on to 
the deck. “ ’Taint the first time he’s been aboard a yacht, 
I know,” said the boatman, turning on Hiram. “Navy, 
may be; eh, mister?” Hiram made no answer, but listened 
to the hollow footsteps of his master on the deck, until he 
lost them. After a pause of perhaps five minutes, Gerard 
came to the rail of the vessel and called him: “ Come up 
here. Search.” 

Hiram went up the shallow side like an exaggerated 
monkey, and the boatman looked after him. “ Reg’lar old 
salts the pair of ’em,” he said; and having knocked the 
still burning ashes of his pipe into the brim of his hat, 
nursed them carefully from the wind whilst he refilled, 
tilted them back again, and smoked on contented. 

“Do you know anything about this kind of thing. 
Search?” asked Gerard, stamping a foot on the deck. 

“I’ve knocked about ’em a bit,” said Hiram. “I was 
stoker aboard one o’ the Messagerie vessels for a year; an’ 
steward’s man aboard an Atlantic steamer for three v’y’ges. 
It stands to reason I looked about a bit; but I ain’t a conny- 
sure. Hello, what’s that?” A head appearing above deck 
startled the usually immovable Hiram. 

“ Man cleaning engines,” said Gerard, who had caught 
the infection for that verbal economy which seemed to live 
about the “Channel Queen.” “Come and look at her.” 

They went over the little vessel together, Hiram making 
observations here and there. Gerard dumb again. When 
they had inspected every part of her, they left, and were 
pulled back across the river; and the wherryman, richer by 


336 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


half a crown, returned to his sheltering heap of timber. 
Gerard led the way to the office, and entering, said briefly: 
“ I can have ‘ Channel Queen ' examined, I suppose?” 

“ When you like.” 

“ When can she sail, if I take her?” 

“ When you've got crew aboard and fires up.” 

“ Do you provision crew, if I hire her?” 

“No; you do." 

“ Good- morning,” said Gerard. 

“ Good-morning," replied the grimy man, and shot away 
again. 

Away once more plodded master and servant through the 
miry streets, the former inquiring here and there as before. 
This time their wanderings ended in an office, where, for 
the consideration of a ten-pound note, a gentleman un- 
dertook to examine the “ Channel Queen ” and to report 
upon her seaworthiness and general capacity. Next Hiram 
was sent off in one direction with orders for stores, to be 
held in readiness for immediate delivery; whilst Gerard 
went another way on a like errand; and so the whole day 
passed busily. The next day was dull and idle; but on the 
next a perfectly satisfactory report of the yacht having 
reached him, Gerard hired her for six months, paid a de- 
posit, left references, and in great haste traveled home- 
ward. During all this time, Hiram had felt quite clear 
about his master's purpose, but had puzzled himself a good 
deal to divine the reason which had set him so suddenly 
upon it, after having rested quiescent for more than half 
a year. The explanation came, by an unlooked-for source. 

“ Mother,” 1 said Gerard, on the evening of his return, 
“I am going abroad.” He had always been fairly accus- 
tomed to his own ‘way; his father's “Very well, my lad,” 
having been ready in answer to most of his proposals; and 
latterly nobody had questioned his comings and goings. 

“ Not for long, I hope?” said Mrs. Lumby. 

“ No,” said Gerard; “probably not for long.” 

His mother would not enter any protest against his going, 
but it cost her a pang for all that. Gerard's manner was 
not encouraging to hope, and she believed that he was but 
going away to brood over his misery; but he was so hard 
and stern of late, that she did not dare to venture upon any 
dissuasion. Milly was bolder. 

“ Where are you going, Gerard?” she asked. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 337 

“ Where fate leads me,” he answered, with a pallid 
smile. 

“ You are uncertain?” 

“ At present, yes.” 

It was in her mind to ask him why he was going, and she 
had already framed the words in which to present her ques- 
tion; but he fixed his eyes upon her in away which seemed 
at once to anticipate inquiry, and refuse an answer. She 
would not have felt that, but for the suspicion which filled 
her thoughts. He was going to seek out Yal Strange — per- 
haps to challenge him to a duel in one" of those foreign 
countries in which Yal made his shifting home. How 
could she be sure of this? Not by interrogating Gerard, 
who would assuredly return no answer. Perhaps by ques- 
tioning Hiram. She resolved to question Hiram. Milly 
had a little bower of a sitting-room — her own— in which in 
happier times she had been wont to entertain her friends; 
the scene of many a girlish confidence and frolic. Meeting 
Hiram in the corridor outside, she summoned him to this 
apartment. 

“Do you know that Mr. Gerard is going abroad?” she 
asked. 

“ I believe he is, miss,” responded Hiram. 

“ Do you know^ where he is going?” 

“Well, I caiPt truthfully say I do,” he answered. 

“ Do you know why he is going?” she demanded. 
There was an anxiety in her manner which Hiram fully 
shared. He seemed to see ahead a worse trouble than had 
yet fallen upon the House; and though he was but newly 
in its service, there was no man who ate the bread of the 
Lumbys who was more devoted to them than he. 

“Wal, miss,” he returned, tentatively, “I am not in 
Mr. Gerardos confidence, up to now.” 

Her woman's wit and native penetration told her that 
his suspicions clashed with hers. “Mr. Search,” she said, 
standing before him with pale and clasped petitionary 
hands, “ may I trust you?” She did not think of her own 
attitude, or of the appeal in her voice, but, taken together 
with his own fears, they touched Hiram profoundly. 

“Miss,” he said, “you mav safely trust me with your 
life.” 

“You know the whole miserable story of your master 
and— Mr. Strange?” He inclined his head gravely. “I 


338 


VALEtfTI^E STKAtfGE. 


have heard," she went on, “ the circumstances which in- 
duced my cousin to take you into his service" — Hiram 
waved a deprecatory hand at that allusion, and his sallow 
cheek flushed a little — “and I believe you are attached to 
him." 

“ That is so, miss," said Hiram, with preternatural 
gravity. 

“At that wretched time," said Milly, “one of our fears 
was that Mr. Gerard would attempt some terrible revenge 
upon Mr. Strange." 

“ That was my idea, tew," he answered. 

“And now the same fear returns," she said, with a face 
of pallor. 

“ Miss," said Hiram, “excuse me. I should go with 
you, if it wa’n’t for one thing. He’s kept as quiet as a 
winter dormouse for half a year. Why should he fire up 
now, without anything to set a light to him?" 

“There is a reason," said Milly, in response. “Mr. 
Strange and his wife are living apart from each other." 

“He knows that?” inquired Hiram. 

“ He knows," she returned. “ Mr. Strange is sailing 
from place to place in the Levant, and his wife is living at 
Naples." At that news, a sudden certainty shot into 
Hiram’s mind, and-declared itself so plainly in his face that 
Milly saw it at a glance. She made a step toward him. 
“ What do you know?" 

“ There air circumstances," said Hiram, with deliberative 
slowness, “ when the or’nary rules of honorable conduct 
must be set on one side. I think this is one of ’em. I 
ain’t pledged to silence, but that’s no matter. Has Mr. 
Gerard Lumby told you, miss, that he’s hired anything in 
London city, lately?" 

“No," she answered, half bewildered. 

“ Well, he has. " He paused again. “lie’s hired — a 
yacht; and he’s goin’ to sail in her — " 

“ In pursuit of Valentine Strange!" she cried. “Oh, 
Mr. Search, this must be prevented. Think," she said, 
twining her hands together, “of the misery it will bring 
upon us all — his mother, his father, all who value him." 

“I’m afraid," said Hiram, deeply moved by her distress, 
and sharing in it, “ it’ll be about as useful to try and turn 
him as it would be if he was St. Paul’s Cathedral." 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 339 

“ Have you spoken to him?" she asked. He shook his 
head- sadly. “ Will you?" 

“ It ain't any use me speakin' to him," he responded, 
mournfully. “ No, miss. I might as well throw stones 
at the solar system. " He stood despondently for a moment, 
and then added, but with no great hopefulness : “ You 
might try him. " 

“ I will try him," she answered, and left Hiram standing 
there. 

His large dark eyes and sallow features, were full of 
mourning. “ 'Tain't a spark and out again with the boss," 
he said sadiy. “ Slow, steady goes the bellows all the time, 
and he's white hot to the core. I know the sort. It's 
British. And an uncommon ugly sort is to have agen 
you. Yes, sir." Then with a sudden change of face and 
figure, he said: “Hiram, may be you'll be wanted yet. 
Mark my words, young man, and be on the spot when you 
air wanted. When the time comes, Hiram, you will be 
wadted — real bad. " 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“MISTER THERE'S A SCORE OF LIVING SOULS ABOXRD 
THAT CRAFT. LET GO THE WHEEL." 

Milly found Gerard alone in the smoking-room. He 
was not smoking or reading, but simply standing with bis 
hands in his coat-pockets, staring out of the window at the 
rain. At her entrance, he looked round, but turned back 
to the window without a word. 

“ Gerard," she said tremulously, “ are you quite re- 
solved on leaving us? Can you not be prevailed upon to 
stay?" 

“ Why should I stay?" he asked in answer. 

She took sudden courage, and advancing, laid her hands 
upon his arm. “ Vengeance is mine , " she said; “I will 
repay.” He looked swiftly down upon her, and away 
again. “ Gerard, dear Gerard they are unhappy already. 
They have parted. Their own consciences were against 
them. You have suffered enough, but you have nothing 
to repent." 

“ Good-bye, Milly," he answered very gently. “ My train 
starts in an hour. I sha n't see you again, most likely." 


340 


VALENTINE STRAHGE. 


His manner was so quiet that he might not have heard her 
words. But the imminence of the danger which she saw so 
clearly braced her for a moment. 

“ Gerard,,” she urged him, “do not go upon this jour- 
ney, Think of your father, and his sorrows. Think of 
your mother. Or if you will go, promise me that you will 
not follow — him. ” 

A curious look crossed bis face. “ Did you care for Yal 
Strange?” he asked. “You wereVt in love with him, 
were you?” 

“No, no!” she cried. At another time, such a question 
concerning any man would have called a blush to her face, 
but now she scarcely noticed it. “ Promise me you will 
not follow him.” 

“ Good-bye, Milly,” he said again, as gently as before. 
But she clung to him with tears, and woidd not let him go. 

“ Stay!” she pleaded passionately — “ stay! For the sake 
of all who love you, stay!” 

“Nothing of this,” he said, with an approach to stern- 
ness in his tones, “ to any one but me. Bemember that. 
Good-bye, again.” He had always seen her so timid and so 
yielding until now, that her persistence amazed him. She 
clung to him with both hands; and without violence, 
which was impossible, he could not escape her. Seeing 
this, he stood with passionless sullen patience, and she 
wasted entreaty on a human rock. In the intensity of her 
eagerness, she tried to move him by force from where he 
stood; but she was so feeble and small, and he so great 
and strong, that with all her vehemence she could not 
sway him by a hair Vb read th. It was all so fearfully plain 
to her now, so certain that he meant the worst! “Stay!” 
she wept, dragging at him with all her feeble strength. 
He answered never a word. The terror mounted higher 
and higher in her heart, and she assailed him incoherently. 
He must not, must not go, 4o break all their hearts. 

“ Hearts are not so easily broken,” he answered at last. 
It was like a statue speaking. 

“You will break mine!” she cried. 

“ Poor Milly,” he answered gently — “poor Milly!” Sud- 
denly she crimsoned, on brow and cheek and throat, and 
her hands dropped from him. He kissed her on the fore- 
head and passed from the room. The drooping, weeping 
figure, and the manner of his parting from it, crossed him 


VALEKTIKE STRAKGE. 341 

many a time, later on, when his heart had softened and 
his longing for revenge was stilled. 

He said the rest of his few farewells, and went up to 
London with Hiram. They drove straight to the river 
side, and found the yacht almost in readiness to weigh 
anchor. It was significant to Hiram of the eagerness 
which lay beneath his master's stony exterior that he slept 
on board. Next morning came the sailing-master, a cheery- 
looking old man, with a face the color of a brick wall, and 
silver hair and whiskers. He told Gerard that he had 
sailed the yacht for its last owner, and was full of her 
praises. In the afternoon they started, in a heavy snow- 
storm ; but before they reached Greenwich a small mutiny 
came about. One of the crew, who had been drinking 
too freely with his friends ashore, approached the cap- 
tain. 

“Beggin' pardon for bein' so bold, cap'n," he said. 
“I ain't a-going to sail in this yere crarft." 

“Oh," said the captain, good-humoredly enough, “I 
think you are. " 

“No; I ain't," returned the seaman hoarsely. “Not if 
I swims for it." 

“ What’s the matter?" asked Gerard, who was standing 
near. 

“This crarft's unlucky, she is," the man responded; 
“and no good'll come of her." 

“What's the matter with her?" asked Gerard. A little 
chill came over him. 

“Why, it's Friday to begin with," said the man; “and 
as if that worn't sufficient, we're thirteen aboard. Theer's 
you, cap'n, and the mate, and four of us, and that's six; 
and theer's a galley-cook and a cabin-cook, and that's eight; 
and theer's the engineer and a brace o' stokers, and that's 
eleven; and the gentleman here, and the Yankee cove, 
and that's thirteen; and I ain't a-goin' to sail in this yere 
crarft." 

“Go to your duty," said the captain, with a laugh. 
“We shall have three more aboard at Greenwich," he add- 
ed; “and I never heard, sir," turning to Gerard, “that 
sixteen was an unlucky number." 

“We starts with thirteen," said the man, with drunken 
doggedness; “and I don't sail aboard of this yere crarft." 

“ Better set him ashore," said Gerard. “ I'm not an 


342 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


idler, and my man is an old salt. We sliall not be short- 
handed.^ 

“ Very well, sir,” returned the captain. “ But I wouldn't 
listen to a fool like that, sir. He'll be all right in the 
morning, when lie's sober. '' 

“ I won't sail in this yere crarft,” the man repeated. 

“Well, I don't want any Jonahs aboard me,” returned 
the captain, who may have had his qualms about unlucky 
numbers too. And so, when the boat which carried the 
remainder of the crew came alongside, the objector, with 
his belongings, was put into it, and dismissed with derisive 
hoots and groans by his comrades of an hour. “Yah! 
Jonah!” The self-discharged stood up in the stern. 
“You'll come to no good,” he roared; “I tell you so; 
you'll come to no good.” And in the vehemence of his 
repudiation of them, he fell over sideways and dived head- 
long into Thames. The two boatmen hauled him out, and 
the men aboard the yacht were in fits of laughter. But 
there was one saturnine face among them. It was of 
course more than sufficiently absurd that a man of culture 
should be affected by the vaticinations of a drunken sailor; 
but the superstitions inherent in the heart live on in defi- 
ance of cultivation. Gerard, now that he came to think of 
it, would rather have sailed on any day in the seven than 
Friday, and would rather have carried any number at 
starting than thirteen. He sneered down these ridiculous 
fears, but they lived again in spite of him. 

It was rough in the Channel, whose waters rather lorded 
it over their “ Queen,” and it was rougher in the Bay of 
Biscay. But being once past Gibraltar, they found peace 
in the waters of the Mediterranean until they came south 
of the Adriatic, where a fierce wind roared down from the 
Austrian Alps, and got to cross-purposes with a wicked 
gale which swept westward from the gates of the Black 
Sea, and made wild work for a time. The “Channel 
Queen ” touched here and there, and Gerard went ashore 
and came on board again. To Trieste. Across to Venice. 
Southward again to Brindisi. Then to Larnaca, a long 
stretch; and at Larnaca, he got the wished-for news. 
The yacht “Mew's- wing” sailed yesterday, bound for 
Alexandria. It was at the end of the second week in 
March, and in that happy region the sun was already warm 
and the air balmy. As the yacht left Larnaca behind. 


VALENTINE STRAKGE. 


343 


Gerard stood on deck looking straight beyond the prow, 
beating with one foot on the plank beneath him; and on 
his face there was a look of steadfast waiting, with now and 
then the merest transient flash of exultation. Hiram 
marked the new elasticity of his walk, and caught once or 
twice the gleam in his eyes. Not another soul aboard 
guessed the purpose of the cruise. 

Master and servant were alike popular on board the little 
vessel, and each took his duty manfully. A day out from 
Cyprus shores, a heavy squall came on, and Gerard and 
Hiram did rather more than their fair share in it. The 
storm lasted ten hours, and when it had blown itself out, 
they went below, and slept. Eight hours later, Gerard 
came on deck. 

“ Seen anything?" he asked, briefly. 

“ Sail on the weather-bow, sir," said the mate, offering 
his glass. 

Gerard took it, and looked long. “ What are we mak- 
ing?" he asked at last. 

“About twelve, sir," said the mate. 

“ There's no hurry," said Gerard. “ It's a lovely morn- 
ing. Slacken down a bit." 

“You'll find it a little heavy, sir, if you slacken speed. 
She rolls a good deal already. " 

“ Never mind," he answered; “ we are in no hurry now." 
The mate transmitted the master’s orders, and the throb 
of the engines came slower on the ear. The change brought 
up Hiram Search, and he, setting his legs apart, scanned 
sea and sky. After a momentary observation, he gave a 
sudden start, and diving below, returned with marine 
glasses, and fixed the craft ahead. 

“Hiram," he said under his breath, “you’ll be wanted 
by and by, or I’m mistaken." 

“ What is that craft doing, do you think?" asked Gerard, 
addressing the mate. 

“She's making about our speed, sir," the mate an- 
swered. 

Gerard went below, and spent the day in his own cabin. 
Hiram hung uneasily about the vessel; now here, now 
there, and passed whole hours in watching the “Mew’s- 
wing " as she courtesied, with half her white canvas set, 
to wind and sea. He knew every line of her long ago, and 
had recognized her at first sight. Toward nightfall, the 


344 


' VALENTINE STRANGE. 


wind failed^ and having less way on her; she courtesied 
more and more. A wonderful moon arose; and the whole 
sea and sky lay bathed in her light. 

“ Hard times lately; sir," said the captain cheerily; when 
Gerard came on deck. 

“Never mind/* said Gerard quietly. “Take another 
spell below. 1*11 sail her to-night. T feel wakeful.** 

The captain protested; but Gerard insisted; and having 
made what he thought a decent resistance; the old man 
went down. He knew the master of the “ Channel Queen ** 
for a thorough sailor by this time; and was willing enough 
to get an extra snooze. “You may tell the engineer to get 
a little extra way on/* said Gerard. “ Let us see what she 
can do. You can sleep without rocking.** 

The captain laughed a cheery “ Good-night; sir/* as he 
went down. 

The measured jar of the propeller grew swifter; and the 
speed of the craft greater. An hour later; Gerard went 
below for a minute; and returned with a bottle of rum be- 
neath his pilot-coat. There were two seamen on deck; one 
at the wheel; and one at the bows. The sea gleamed wide 
beneath the moonlight; and slowly sunk to peace after the 
squall; now at rest for sixteen hours. “1*11 take the 
wheel/* said Gerard; quietly handing the bottle to the man. 
“ You and your chum there can drink my health if you 
like. You may both go down for an hour or two. 1*11 
call you when I*m tired.** And now the deck was clear; 
and Gerard held the wheel. 

“Great heavens!** murmured the wretched faithful 
Hiram; watchful of all; though unobserved. “Is it goin* 
to be as bad and base as this?*’ 

The moonbeams fell wide and soft upon the rolling sea,* 
and the rolling sail of the “ Mew*s-wing ** shot now and 
again in a silver gleam across the black edge of the liquid 
disk. The silver gleam rose higher; creeping up and up 
into the sky, and growing broader as it climbed. The 
helmsman steered; and the sole eyes under heaven that saw 
his purpose; watched. Stiff and chilled to the bone; Hiram 
crawled on deck and looked ahead. 

“ Who*s there?** said Gerard. 

“You musn*t do this; mister/* said Hiram; advancing 
and laying a hand upon one of the spokes of the wheel. 
The “ Mew*s-wing** was scarce a quarter of a mile ahead. 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


345 


and the steam-yacht was in a line for her, going at full 
speed. Gerard looked at him without a word. “I could 
call the crew and stop it in a minute, mister," said Hiram 
hoarsely; “ but I don't want to let it out that Gerard Lum- 
by ever meant wholesale murder. Stand aside ! You won't, 
you madman? You shall !" He set his hands to the wheel; 
but he might as well have tried to lift the boat as to turn 
back the grip that guided her. “Mister, there's a score 
of living souls aboard that craft. Let go the wheel!" 

Gerard looked straight on, with a face as rigid as stone. 

“Hollo, there!" yelled a voice. “Ahoy! ahoy! Where 
are you coming to? Port! port!" 

The “ Channel Queen " bore down. Hiram took his 
master by the waist and tore at him like a madman. The 
vessels were very near each other now. 

“ You'll forgive me some day," said Hiram, and releas- 
ing Gerald, he retired a little, and then sprung forward 
like a flash and felled him with one blow to the deck. 
Then he seized the wheel- and tore it round, jammed it 
hard down and closed his eyes. Confused wild cries were 
in his ears, and he looked out again. The yacht was with- 
in twenty yards of them, but safe. There was a figure 
that he knew leaning forward from the shrouds, and Ger- 
ard was on his feet again, shaking a clinched hand at it. 
The clinched hand opened a denouncing forefinger, and a 
voice rang out: “ I shall have you yet, Yal Strange!" 

And the “ Channel Queen " swept on, and left the 
“ Mew's-wing " far behind. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE HORROR OF THE VENGEANCE HIS ENEMY HAD PUR- 
POSED LEFT VAL UNHINGED AND TERROR-STRICKEN. 

Morning broke bright and beautiful. “Mr. Search, 
Mr. Search," said the captain, with a half-comic, lialf-seri- 
ous glance at Hiram, “ somebody's been steering a queer 
course lately." / 

“We went out a point or two to look at that yacht," 
said Hiram shiftily. 

“ And lost your reckoning afterward," said the captain. 


34(3 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ I thought you were better sailors both of you. Might be 
running for Odessa this way rather than Alexandria.” 

“Well/* returned Hiram, feigning ill-temper, “you 
can steer the ship yourself, captain. I reckon it's your 
business. ” 

The genial old skipper stared after him as he left the 
deck. “What makes him so sore all of a sudden?” he 
wondered. But he never spoke again of the nights way- 
ward steering, and perhaps that served Hiram Searches 
turn. 

As for Gerard, he showed little difference of manner. 
Hiram, when he was left alone, and the “ Mew V wing ” 
had faded out of sight in the gray mist of morning, found 
time to think matters over, and came to the conclusion that 
he would have to encounter one of two things — a passion- 
ate and profound resentment, or a gratitude equally pas- 
sionate and profound. Gerard gave sign of neither the one 
nor the other, but met him aim >sfc as if nothing had hap- 
pened. “British again,” said Hiram; but Gerard's be- 
havior was not the less bewildering to him that he pretended 
thus lightly to find a solution for it. 

Meantime, aboard the “ MewVwing ” there were amaze- 
ment and dread. Every man aboard had known the story 
of their owner's treachery to his friend in some garbled and 
distorted form. But 'V al, from the first gathering of the 
•crew together, had been a favorite with them all, and in 
their eyes the elopement had been the triumph of true love 
over unknown obstacles. The rough fellows liked Bo- 
mance, like the rest of the world; and Constance, who 
could be haughty and cold enough to social equals, had 
never been anything but gracious and kindly to those below 
her, and had, by dint of her regal beauty and her gentle- 
ness, enlisted all these hearts at once. They could not tell 
why she and Yal had parted; but they talked about the 
parting, and thought about it, and had queer stories to ex- 
plain it. Gerard had been once aboard the “ MewVwing,” 
and in the awful moment when the steam yacht crossed 
her, Yal was not the only man who recognized him. The 
wild cry of the lookout had brought them all on deck, 
and the lookout himself had seen the struggle at the 
wheel, and had beheld the blow which saved the yacht and 
every soul on board. The men talked these things over, 
and by and by murmurs of rage and fear began to rise 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


347 


amongst them. After a while they came forward in a 
body, and setting forth their spokesman, demanded, through 
him, to he run into the nearest port and there disbanded. 

“Us thinks, sir, ** said the spokesman, respectfully but 
firmly, “ as after what took place this morning, no maiTs 
lifers safe aboard this craft. ** A murmur of assent en- 
couraged him. “It's clear the party meant to run us 
down; an* him being steam, an* us being canvas, the odds 
is all agen us. All fair and proper risks us is willing to 
run, sir, but not that. Some of us is married, an* some of 
us ain*t; but us has all got our lives to look after, an* 
what us says is: / Make a clean run for the nearest port, 
pay us our doos, an* leave us to shift for ourselves.* That*s 
it, I think, my lads?** 

That was it, said a rough murmur from behind him. 
The horror of the vengeance his enemy had proposed left 
Yal unhinged and terror-stricken. He was not a coward ; 
but in view of the deadly hatred Gerard *s attempt bespoke, 
his common courage left him. It was scarcely likely, he 
told himself, that he would long escape a revenge so ready 
to stick at nothing; but even at the push of desperation, 
he could not feel justified in dragging all these people into 
his own risk. He gave way without a word of protest. 

“My lads,** he said, “I can not say that I share your 
belief; but since you hold it, I will let you have your way. ** 

“Not share the belief, sir?** said the skipper. “ Why 
Thomson saw the struggle, and you know what the moon- 
light was. You don*t mean to say you think they didn*t 
see us?** 

“ You may be sure of this, Soulsby,** said Yal, as quietly 
as he could — “since the struggle did take place, the at- 
tempt will not be repeated. You don*t suppose that any 
crew would allow their vessel to run another down, do 
you?** 

“There*s some comfort in that reflection, sir,** said the 
skipper; and he passed the consolatory question to the 
mate, who passed it to the men. They agreed that one 
bloodthirsty madman would be as many as any one boat 
would be likely to carry at a time, and found satisfaction 
in the belief that by this time the late helmsman was prob- 
ably in irons. “ YouTL report this to the consul when 
we land, of course, sir?** 


348 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


“ I don*t see what good that would do,, Soulsby," said 
Yal. 

“Well, sir," returned the skipper, “if youdon*t, I shall. 
And theredl be such a lookout kept aboard this boat as 
never was kept afore; and if the gentleman tries his game 
again, Fm a reasonably . good shot and I shall have a fair- 
ish try to bring him down. I set a value on my life, sir," 
he concluded, and walked away indignantly. 

No other attempt was made; and the sharpest lookout 
which could be.iept failed to sight the “ Channel Queen." 
But the skipper kept his word, and reported the alfair to ’ 
the British Consul when they reached their port; and the 
official sent for Yal, and was for taking it up at once, as an 
unheard-of outrage. Yal j)ooh-poohed the whole business. 

“I never came near such a set of old women in my 
life," he declared. “ The man at the wheel and some other 
fool were fighting, and only saw us just in time to clear 
us. " 

“But your sailing-master tells me that he heard the man 
threaten you by name," said the. consul. “ ‘ I shall run 
you down, Val Strange/ or words to that effect, were used, 
he swears." 

“Why not, ‘if youTe not run down, it’s strange?* " 
questioned Val readily. He had been prepared for this. 

The consul burst out laughing and admitted that this 
reading was the likelier of the two. After all, he said, 
Mr. Strange was theinterested party, and not the skipper. 
The skipper called once more to know what was being 
done; and the consul told him briefly and with some scorn 
what color the yaclit*s owner had put upon the matter. 

“ It's well known to all of us," said the skipper, “who 
the man was that tried to run us down, and what was his 
reason for it. Mr. Strange ran away with the lady he was 
to marry, and married her himself; and as to the words, 
1*11 swear to *em before judge and jury." 

In effect, the skipper went away in high anger. The ' 
consul told him that he was an insolent cross-grained fel- 
low, and was himself left a good deal puzzled by the busi- 
ness. He felt bound to accept Val*s view of it, however; 
and the skipper being paid to the uttermost farthing, went 
to England in the first homeward-bound vessel, a little 
mollified, but not to be converted from his own belief. He 
was, however, a man of discretion, and had many grounds 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


349 


of gratitude to his late employer,, and held his tongue be- 
tween his teeth, therefore. Jacky Tar in general being 
discharged* at his own desire, and plentifully supplied with 
money, sought his own joys and had his fling, and thought 
no more about his narrow escape than to make a foc'sle 
yarn of it. 

The reason for VaTs conduct was not far to seek, though 
it was somewhat complex. He admitted the gigantic 
wrong he had done against his friend, and was not so blind 
an egotist that he could not understand the injured man's 
longing for the wild justice of revenge. There was. a 
feeling in his mind, too, that since he had left Gerard with- 
out any legal remedy an honorable man might try for, he 
was bound to accept the risk of any illegal remedy he 
might seek; and there was thus a sense in his mind that 
to ask the protection of the law would be base beyond any- 
thing he had done already. That is a sense in which I 
suppose that any high-minded man who will fancy himself 
in Yal Strange's place will not find it difficult to share. 
And beyond these, which were more than sufficient for him, 
lay another reason: nothing could have been done, even 
had he willed it, without the introduction of Constance's 
name. Any one link in this chain might have served to 
hold him motionless. 

The breach between himself and his wife was not a. sev- 
erance of love, but a confession of remorse. No man sins 
against his own high instincts with impunity; but there 
are some who are of fiber tough enough to long for pardon, 
and yet retain the offense. But Yal and Constance, in the 
ordinary course of circumstances, should have been blame- 
less people, leading lovable lives, and as happy as this hard 
world will allow to the happiest. He wrote to her sad, short 
letters, telling her he was here or there, and bound here 
or there; and she answered as shortly and as sadly. But 
now, to his surprise, came a letter urging him to return to 
her. He left his yacht in charge of the agent of an En- 
glish shipping firm, instructing him to sell her, and took 
ship for Naples. May was drawing near, and all the ex- 
quisite country was in rich bloom. The Cilia ja was 
crowded in the tranquil evenings; and there were trips to 
Posilippo by land, and trips to San Giovanna's Palace by 
moonlight, by water; and the gay southern city had fairly 
begun its long season of summer joys. Yal had expected 


350 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


to be asked to share in these, and had with heavy heart 
braced himself to bear the burden of festivity; but he found 
Constance pale and languid, and unlike her old* self. She 
had news for him which would have revived his old tender- 
ness had it needed revival, and which brought him to her 
feet again with a flush of something like the old rapturous 
delight. His joy, and tenderness, and fear, melted her re- 
serve, and this new meeting was the happiest moment of 
their brief and troubled wedded life. 

“We may still be happy,” she murmured, caressing his 
head as he knelt beside her. “ Let us make the best of 
life, Yal. Let us be apart no more.” 

“We will not part again,” said Yal, with tears in his 
eyes, “ until death parts us.” 

“Hush!” she answered, laying a hand upon his lips. 
“ Do not talk of that, Val.” 

He was constant in his attendance upon her, and found 
her more than commonly full of those forebodings and pre- 
sentiments which are common to women in her situation. 
He did not even know that they were common; and though 
he fought against them, and smiled them down in her pres- 
ence, they weighed upon him heavily, and he had a horrible 
fear that they would be fulfilled. If she would have per- 
mitted it, he would have had every physician in the city in 
attendance upon her; though, with a touch of British 
prejudice, he despised them all, and would have had more 
confidence in an English medical student freshly dressed in 
the glories of a diploma. It chanced that a young English 
surgeon of great promise, though as yet of inconsiderable 
note, was at that time in Naples, whither he had accom- 
panied, all the way from England, an elderly aristocrat, 
who had chosen to think himself ill, and now preferred to 
think himself cured of a complaint which had never ailed 
him. But the noble feeble Earl so enthusiastically cried 
the praise of his medico , in whose society he had chosen to 
cast off his fancied malady, that Yal, hearing of him, 
eagerly got a letter of introduction to my lord, and from 
him an introduction to the young doctor. The doctor 
wanted to return to England, and was well pleased to find 
employment on the way. Val had a great desire that his 
child should be born at home, and Constance shared it. 
The doctor gave it as his opinion that she would do best to 
travel by sea, and if possible, by short stages. So they 


VALEKTItfE STRAKGE. 


351 


sailed for Marseilles, and lingered there a day or two, and 
then found a vessel bound for Cadiz, and sailed thither in 
exquisite summer weather, with scarce a heave upon the 
sea. Little Mary accompanied them, of course. She had 
written many letters to Hiram, bewailing her own wicked- 
ness, and giving her own small impressions of foreign parts. 
Hiram had responded in clerkly hand and periods rhetor- 
ical. When Hiram set pen to paper, he lost all the raciness 
characteristic of his speech, and modeled himself apparent- 
ly on the dullest of newspaper leaders. “I will not,” he 
wrote, with most judicial and unloverlike gravity, at- 
tempt to add to the weight of your contrition by reproach- 
ing you for the part you have played in this lamentable 
tragedy. But I am attached by ties, which I will not 
pause to catalogue, to Mr. Gerard Lumby, and I will not 
leave him until the wounds he has endured are cicatrized 
by time. You will see, therefore, that your own conduct 
holds us apart for an indefinite period.” 

At first the very English of his epistle crushed its recipi- 
ent. But it was so unlike Hiram that she believed in her 
inmost heart that its severity was assumed ; and this con- 
viction, strengthened by desire, held her poor little heart 
alive. Like wiser people, she believed what was pleasant 
to believe; but in this matter she had the truth at least 
partly on her side. In Hiram's eyes she had done wrong; 
but he had heard the argument by which she had been per- 
suaded, and he knew something of the struggle she had 
gone through. And he was, besides, one of those mis- 
guided people who have a mighty idea of the supremacy of 
the male creature in marriage; and, like a good many 
others, he ^ could be amazingly resolute — on paper. Of late 
Hiram's letters had almost ceased; but she knew that he 
too was in foreign parts; and even that, though she could 
not hope to meet him, seemed vaguely to bring him nearer. 
She was immensely attached to Constance, who treated her 
with unvarying kindness; and, altogether, she was perhaps 
the least unhappy of the quintet whom the runaway match 
affected. 


352 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

“ay!” cried garling in a quavering voice,, “you 

HAVE PUNISHED ME ENOUGH AMONGST YOU.” 

Having once decided in her traveled mind that foreign 
cities were not only unlike London, but exceedingly unlike 
each other, Mary was steeled against the surprises of cos- 
tume, architecture, and physiognomy. But that she shared 
the common frailty, and was not steeled against the amaze- 
ment of meeting what used to be common in the midst of 
so much uncommonness, was fairly proved by the fact that 
suddenly encountering Hiram Search in a shady street in 
Cadiz, she sat upon a convenient door-step and fainted. 
Hiram himself, though much amazed by the encounter, 
was less affected, and seizing a passing water-carrier, bor- 
rowed his little tin vessel, and knelt above his sweetheart 
and laved her temples, and her lips until she recovered. 
He had pictured to himself another meeting, and had all 
ready for delivery an impressive discourse calculated for 
her moral benefit; but now, when she came round, he was 
nursing her head upon his breast and murmuring, “ My 
poor darling my poor darling” and taking not the slight- 
est notice of half a dozen ugly but picturesque old women, 
and one picturesque and astonishingly pretty young one, 
who suddenly found this little drama acting beneath their 
noses, and stood attentively to watch it through. Mary 
was much more sensitive to public observation, than her 
lover. The first thing she did was to arrange her bonnet 
and lower her veil, the next to resume her seat upon the 
convenient door-step and cry comfortably. Hiram ad- 
dressed the assembled ladies in their own language, and 
begged them to disperse; but being unable to prevail upon 
them, he lifted Mary to her feet, tucked her arm under 
his, and marched off with her. 

“ Mrs. Strange is in Cadiz, I suppose?” asked Hiram. 

“ Yes,” answered Mary; “ and Mr. Strange. They are 
going home to their house at BrierhanT.” 

Hiram's reception of this simple piece of news astonished 
Mary; but it meant so much to him that she could not 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 353 

understand. He resolved at once to keep a hawk's eye on 
his master. 

“ You have been very angry with me, Hiram/' said 
Mary, attacking the subject next her heart; “ but you will 
forgive me, won't you?" Somehow, Hiram's sternness 
had dissolved, and he forgave her, without the lecture he 
had intended to deliver; and she began to bubble over with 
innocent hajjpiness and gayety, and to talk of her curiosi- 
ties of modern travel, all grown remarkable again, now 
that Hiram was here to listen whilst she spoke of them. 
He allowed her to run on, and threw in here and there a 
question to direct her talk, so that, without alarming her 
by any inkling of his own fears, he drew from her a con- 
tradiction of them. Gerard had touched neither at* Naples 
nor Marseilles, and could, therefore, not be here of malice 
aforethought, since he had no knowledge of his enemy's 
journey. And just as this dread was finally lifted from 
Hiram's mind, Maiy stopped, and clasping his arm with 
both hands, made as if to hide herself behind him, whilst 
with frightened eyes she stared across the street. Follow- 
ing the direction of her glance, he was aware of his mas- 
ter, standing stock-still with folded arms, unconscious of 
their presence, but tracking with eyes that burned like fire 
another figure in their rear, which, as they halted, ap- 
proached them, leaning heavily on a walking-stick, and 
moving with a dejected head and downward glance. The 
face of this bent and ancient-looking figure was hidden 
from Hiram, though visible to Gerard. The latter cross- 
ing the sunny pavement, stepped into shadow within two 
yards of Hiram, so absorbed in his contemplation of the 
bent figure that he had no eyes for his servant. When the 
man tottered and quavered quite close, Gerard gripped him 
by the shoulder, and the pinched old face whose hollow 
care-worn eyes looked up at him was the face of Garling. 
Hiram fell back a step with an exclamation which drew his 
master's regard upon him. Garling's glance traveled from 
one to another, with an uneasy half-apprehension of their 
presence. His own daughter; the man who had ruined 
his plans; and the son of the man he had plotted to ruin. 
He murmured that they had not often looked so real, and 
made as if to pass on; but Gerard's grasp detained him. 

“ So you are here, Mr. Garling, are you?" asked Gerard, 
swaying the quavering old figure gently to and fro in his 


354 : 


VALEHTIHE STKAKGE. 


strong hand. “ Your yillainy hasn’t led to happiness, 
either ?” That truth was written in his face. 

“ That’s new / 1 said Garling, turning his head aside as 
if to listen. “ They say the same things over and over 
again. A trick — a mere trick, to trap me into weakness 
and confession. ” 

“ Mister/' said Hiram, “ he’s as mad as a March hare!” 

The old man’s eyes shifted to the last speaker, with a 
new look in them, half dreadful, half inquiring. Then 
they wandered to his daughter’s face. “ Why don’t you 
speak?” he asked. 

She shrunk away from him. “ Hiram,” she said falter- 
ingly, “ he frightens me. Take me away.” 

k< You can’t hold malice against a thing like this?” said 
Hiram, addressing his master. 

“ Malice?” replied Gerard, dropping the hand that had 
held Garling. ‘ 6 No. ” 

“ Ay!” cried Garling, in a quavering voice, “ you have 
punished me enough, amongst you! But you were gentle 
when the rest were hard. Perhaps you guessed I meant to 
use you kindly after all.” This was to Mary, who shrunk 
back from him appalled. “ Ay, you’re afraid of me; but I 
meant well by you. And I mean well by you still. It 
isn’t much, compared with what it might have been, but 
it is all honestly come by, and that’s a great matter — a 
great matter. Make a good use of it.” 

The three who heard him looked from one to the other, 
and little Mary, whose nerves had already been greatly 
shaken, began to cry again. 

“ Why, now you weep,” he said, “ and I perceive you 
feel some touch of pity. Ah, that’s Shakespeare! I was 
a great student of Shakespeare when I was a lad. A man 
of lofty imagination, and versed in all the mysteries of 
human nature. Oassar haunted Brutus. But no man was 
ever so crowded round with ghosts as I have been.” 

It was evident alike to Gerard and to Hiram that he was 
not sure of their corporeal unreality, but they could each 
trace the meaning beneath these scattered words of his. 

* “ You don’t take me for a ghost, do you, mister?” said 
Hiram. 

Garling looked startled and perplexed, and made as if to 
go on again, but turning, caught sight of Mary, and laid 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


355 


his hand on her gently. “ Don't go," he whispered; 
“ don't leave me. I shall make it worth your while . 93 

“ Heaven's my witness, mister," said Hiram earnestly 
to Gerard, “ that I don't want my little gell to finger a 
penny of his money, if he's got any; but it ain't the thing 
to leave him in this condition in a foreign city. He's been 
a rare bad old lot, and that's a fact; but he ought to be 
looked after." 

Gerard returning no answer, Hiram laid his hand on 
Garling's shoulder and addressed him in Spanish. “ Ho 
you speak the language, old man! Gan you get on by 
yourself?" 

“Yes, yes," returned Garling, putting him fretfully 
aside, and striving once more to get past Hiram to his 
daughter, who, with terror in every gesture and feature, 
avoided him. 

“ Take her away," said Gerard. “ I will see that he does 
not follow you. I can get somebody to take charge of him, 
I dare say. You needn't be afraid of me. Search," he said, 
somewhat bitterly. “ Heaven has taken vengeance here . " 

“ That's like yourself," returned Hiram. “ That's the 
first thing like you sence we sailed out of Thames river!" 

“ Take her away," said Gerard, again, speaking sternly 
this time. Hiram obeyed. 

The old man struggled to pursue the retreating pair; 
but Gerard, passing an arm through Garling's, turned 
round, and led him in the way he had been originally 
going. He resented this for a moment only, and then, 
with drooping eyes, submitted. 

“ Where do you live?" asked Gerard. 

Garling raised his stick a little from the ground and 
pointed forward. He went on slowly but without hesita- 
tion; and before they had gone far, he paused, and dravv- 
ing a key from his pocket, entered at an open door-way, 
mounted a set of white stone steps, and admitted himself 
to a large chamber, furnished in the fashion of the coun- 
try, which always looks sparse to an English eye, but with 
no sign of poverty or neglect in its appearance. 

“ Is this your home?" Gerard demanded softly. 

Garling laid down his hat and stick and passed a hand 
across his forehead before answering. When he respond- 
ed, it was with a tone and manner so different from those 
he had hitherto employed, that the questioner was startled. 


356 


VALENTINE STHANGE. 


“ This is my home, Mr. Lumby, and will be for the re- 
mainder of my time. * * He motioned his visitor to a seat, 
and himself sunk down wearily. “ I can not resent your 
intrusion/ * he said feebly; “ and since you have found me 
here, you may tell my late employers that I am a good deal 
worn, and that I shall not last much longer. I have had 
many troubles lately, Mr. Gerard, and my mind is affect- 
ed; I feel it unhinged at times. I was proud of my intel- 
lect many years ago, and I misused it. I am broken down, 
as you may know by these confessions; shattered, quite 
shattered, and an old man/* The light alternately flick- 
ered and faded on his face, and his voice seemed to fall 
and rise with the brightening and the dying of an inward 
gleam. At one second his face and voice looked and 
sounded altogether sane, and in the next both had grown 
senile. The words “ I am broken down ** were maunder- 
ing: “ as you may know by these confessions ** followed 
swiftly, with a reassertion of his ancient self: “ shattered, 
quite shattered; an old man," might have been spoken by 
one hopelessly gone into melancholia. 

“ The evil you attempted to do us, failed or partly 
failed/* said Gerard. He might have gone on to say more; 
but Galling broke in with a murmur: <c Failed? Yes, yes. 
It failed.** Then they both sat silent for a time, until 
Garling looked up with a bewildered air. “ Help me/* 
he said; “ I want to think of something. Whom did I 
meet? Have I met anybody to-day?** 

“ Your daughter?** asked Gerard. 

“ Yes,** he said, brightening instantly, but sinking back 
again. By and by he said, in the old dry reticent way 
which the listener could remember from his boyhood: “ It 
is a curious thing for me to ask a favor of any man belong- 
ing to your house. AVill you do me one?** 

“ If I can/* said Gerard. “ Yes.** 

“ There is some remnant of my own money left me, and 
I wish my daughter to inherit it. I have not command of 
myself at all times, and my mind is shattered. It is going. 
What did I want to say?* * 

“ Listen to me/* said Gerard, as he drooped again. 
“ You wish to make a will in your daughter’s favor?** 

“ Yes, yes.** 

“ Entirely and without reserve?** He nodded “ Yes * 7 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 357 

again, with brightening eyes. “ And you wish me to have 
it prepared and bring it to you to sign?” 

“ Yes,” he said, once more collected; “ and to make 
immediate provision for the transfer of my last penny to 
an English bank.” He arose and produced papers, and 
gave instructions dryly and clearly, without even a verbal 
stumble. “ If you bring a lawyer with you,” he said then, 
“ see me before you bring him, and let him meet me at 
my best.” 

Gerard promised this also; and Garling again began to 
maunder in his speech: and after a time the young fellow 
left him, bound by his undertaking, but not sure that the 
broken swindler would ever again be in a mental condition 
to make any business transaction valid. He did perhaps 
the wisest thing he could do, and consulted the British 
consul, to whom he told the whole story. The consul him- 
self drafted Garling' s last testament, and he and Gerard 
witnessed the document when it was signed. When called 
upon for his signature, Garling was in the full possession 
of his motive powers. The man's tremendous will was 
equal to the strain he made upon it; but it never answered 
to another call; and in a week his stubborn wasted heart 
beat its last, and the ghosts his wicked life had gathered 
round him haunted him no more. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

“Constance! may be god wtll be good, and let me 

SEE YOU HAPPY, AS YOU NEVER COULD HAVE BEEN 
IN THIS WORLD.” 

Days before Garling's death, Constance and Val had 
left Cadiz on their homeward route, and Mary had traveled 
with them in attendance upon her mistress. Constance 
had written to her aunt Lucretia, telling her of the new 
hopes and fears which dwelt about her, and entreating a 
renewal of her old: friendship. The old lady came down, 
in answer to* this letter, to meet her at Southampton, and 
received her very kindly; but she encountered her ancient 
favorite Yal Strange with inexplicable and inflexible 
enmity. “ Don't tell me, my dear,'' she said in answer to 
her niece's remonstrances; “ he left you alone at the be- 


358 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


ginning of your sufferings. I know it all. Everybody has 
talked about it. He was a faithless friend, to begin with, 
and he’s a bad husband; and I will never speak to him 
again.” 

“ He is not a bad husband,” Constance answered, weep- 
ing. “ We have had cause for trouble, and we have been 
unhappy, but never, never, through any want of love on 
either side! And dear aunt, help us to be happy now. We 
shall have cause to be happy now.” 

Aunt Lucretia wept with her, and relented partially, for 
Constance’s sake. N But against Yal she was implacable, 
and she treated him with a distant coldness which pained 
him deeply. The elder Mr. Jolly met the little party in 
town, having constrained himself to leave Paris in honor of 
the expected event; for which, without anybody precisely 
knowing why, he seemed to appropriate to himself an 
amazing credit. 

“ My dear Valentine,” he said, as Yal sat moodily over 
his wine and a cigar, after dinner, on his first night in 
England, “ it has always been my practice to endeavor to 
make the best of everything. We have proverbs on our 
side: Love laughs at locksmiths, and All’s fair in love and 
war. And apart from the romantic and sentimental aspect 
which, to eyes, more youthful than mine, the case may 
wear, I console myself with the reflection that the marriage 
is a fait accompli. Your proceeding, I presume I may ac- 
knowledge without any danger of offense, and certainly 
without any intention of being offensive, was — er — a little 
startling. But all that is over; and you are prepared to 
encounter the commonplace of life, and I presume to stay 
at home, become custos rotulorum , and discharge the duties 
of a good landlord. I have always maintained that the one 
claim a father has to consideration in affairs of this kind is 
that he is interested in his daughter’s happiness. I am 
not without the emotions common to paternity; but I have 
never been inclined to obtrude my anxieties, and I will not 
obtrude them now. ’ ’ 

Val said “ Yes ” and “ Ho ” and “ Of course ”— at the 
right places, for the most part; and Mr. Jolly was abso- 
lutely satisfied with him, and with himself. Wien they 
all left London, he was established in free quarters in 
Val’s house at Brierham; and he felt a pleasurable glow in 
the fact that this eligible family mansion was henceforth 


VALEKTIHE STRANGE. 


359 


his daughter’s home, and that in those days when Paris 
might seem dull to him, he would find a shelter here. It 
is j)erhaps unnecessary to say that had Val been poor in- 
stead of wealthy, Mr. Jolly's ideas on the moral and senti- 
mental aspect of the elopement might have undergone de- 
velopment in a different direction. Val himself was filled 
with anxious thoughts; but he too, like Constance, looked 
for a veritable sacrament of love in the birth of a child. 
But his emotions were not of that boisterous and thick- 
skinned quality which can bear to find vent in the presence 
of strangers; and thus, except in those now rare moments 
when he and his wife were alone together, he wore rather a 
morose and preoccupied air. Miss Lucretia set this down 
to a desire on his part to be away from the place, and 
charged him in her own heart with a perpetual longing 
after the flesh-pots of a bachelor's Egypt. Not all Con- 
stance's faith in her husband's affection, nor Val's own 
constant presence in the house, could weaken this belief of 
hers. Women can be amazingly cruel on occasion, and 
the old maiden lady relented not to Val. He bore every- 
thing with patience, even with seeming apathy, strength- 
ened inwardly by new hopes, and chastened by fears new 
and old. 

In the midst of all this, news reached him that General 
Lumby had returned, andjiad again taken up his residence 
at Lumby Hall. Before Constance had recalled him to 
her side, he had fallen into such a mood that he would not 
greatly have cared had he been called upon to expiate 
his falsity to friendship with his life. But now he had a 
reason for living, and he meant to live. He listened anx- 
iously for tidings of Gerard and his manner of living; and 
such small items of news as reached him were reassuring. 
The defeated rival seemed at length to have settled clown, 
accepting his defeat. Val had no wish to remember against 
him that wild night in the Mediterranean. He knew he 
had given horrible provocation; and he even looked to his 
own devotion to Constance as one means of appeasing 
Gerard's hatred. He laid plans for the future, and re- 
solved, if things went well with him, that he would mi- 
grate to another county. He did himself more justice 
when he admitted that Gerard would find it unpleasant to 
have him for a constant neighbor; and since it seemed well 
that one of them should move to a distance, it seemed well 


300 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


that lie should be the emigrant. He had robbed Gerard 
of enough already. He would not rob him of the house in 
which his ancestors had lived so long, by poisoning the air 
about it. 

Let me say once more that Yal Strange was not meant 
by nature to live disloyally. But fate is just, and his very 
virtues tore him. 

Gerard in Cadiz had asked Hiram one question: “ Is she 
here?” Mary’s unlooked for presence had dictated this in- 
quiry. 

“ She is,” Hiram had responded. “ She’s goin’ to Eng- 
land, and her husband’s with her.” Gerard started, and 
paled ever so little; but Hiram watched him with glitter- 
ing eyes which missed nothing. “ They’re going home for 
a special purpose. I reckon if it turns out a son, that 
when he’s grown up, he’d like to feel he’d been born in 
the ancestral halls. Anyhow,” added Hiram, “ I guess I 
should if I was going to be born over again as a British 
aristocrat.” 

Hot even Hiram had rightly estimated the purposes which 
moved Gerard to the reckless and horrible revenge he had 
once attempted. He was not avenging his own wrongs, 
but the wrongs done to Constance by her husband’s deser- 
tion of her. He did not understand, he did not even 
dream, that the thought of his own sufferings, and their 
disloyalty to him, had cast the shadow which lay like an 
impassable barrier between man and wife. To his mind, 
Val had been doubly a traitor — false to him, and false to 
the woman he had stolen from him. It was the belief in 
the second falsity wjiicli had stirred him to the contempla- 
tion of that crime which it was Hiram’s happy fortune to 
frustrate. It was not likely that Val’s return to his old 
home after so remarkable a disappearance from it, should 
go untalked of. The general verdict had been unfavorable 
to him at his going, and it was unfavorable still. Had 
Miss Lucre tia’s tongue been less active, it might have been 
otherwise; for a wealthy, good-looking, good-tempered 
young fellow, who has the loveliest woman in a county for 
his wife, is likely to be popular, and to find more serious 
crimes than a runaway marriage forgiven him. Even the 
parting at Naples, and Yal’s extended cruises in the Le- 
vant, would have been condoned and forgotten; but it was 
murmured everywhere that Mrs. Strange’s aunt knew the 


VALENTINE STRANGE* 


361 


naughty secret of their parting — that Val was guilty, and 
that she was implacable. After the . lapse of a year from 
the date of his tragedy, foolish people felt justified in hint- 
ing at these things even in Gerard’s presence, and the ru- 
mors reached him in a hundred ways. 

A slow, bitter, awful fire of wrath burned in the young 
man’s heart. By nature and descent, loyal and honest, but 
by nature and descent disposed to nurse revenge, his native 
virtue and his native ice of blood alike spurred him to hate 
his enemy. He said of himself, and it was true, that he 
would have roasted at a slow fire, rather than have deceived 
a friend as Val had deceived him. His own purity of honor 
made Val’s dishonor all the viler. Yet even then, had 
Val continued true to Constance, and had she seemed hap- 
py with him, there was enough of heathen valor in the 
man to have hidden hatred and heart-burning for a life- 
time. Bui; now, to his distorted gaze. Revenge stood con- 
secrated by Hate and Scorn. He could leave Garling to 
the vengeance, or even the mercy of heaven, without an 
inward struggle. But Garling had not sought to rob him 
of his love; and Garling had missed his own prize, and had 
grown old on a sudden, and was near death’s door, and 
had but a tottering reason left him; whereas this supreme 
criminal had succeeded in his crime, and having stolen his 
treasure, had thrown it away. We know how false the pop- 
ular talk was; but he did not. It found ready credence 
with him, and there was no baseness, however unexampled, 
of which he was not ready to believe that Val Strange had 
been or would be guilty. 

But he, like the rest of us, was led by a way he knew not. 

As the hoped-for yet dreaded time grew nearer in the 
house at Brierham, Val and Constance grew nearer to each 
other in confidence and affection. They looked forward, 
though with certain tremblings and forebodings, to a 
happy and united life. The child would lay a hand on 
each, and would hold them together to all times. But Val 
knew nothing of the county talk, and his moody troubled 
face bore no disguise that the dull wits of visitors and serv- 
ants could be expected to look through. 

The weather for many days past had been close and sul- 
try, and had brought with it a feeling of depression, which 
affected both husband and wife. And now the time 
fraught with so much of desire and dread came on, and 


362 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


Val waited for news in tlie room in which Hiram Search 
first met him. For a time the messengers who found him 
waiting there, brought reassuring news enough; but in a 
while he was left altogether alone, staring out at the sultry 
noonday sky and the shadowless noonday fields. He waited 
along time, and then rang the bell and asked for news. 
The messenger returned with an ominous face and an 
equivocal message; and after another anxious terrible pause 
of an hour, which seemed a year in its prolonged suspense, 
he was confronted by the doctor. “ Well?” he said. That 
was all. It was recorded against him afterward, though 
the stern, almost savage brevity of the question meant Love 
on the rack. 

“ I may congratulate you on one side, Mr. Strange,” re- 
turned the doctor; “ though on the other I am afraid there 
is scarcely room for hope.” Val looked at him stonily and 
said nothing. It was all set down against him with the 
rest, though his very heart-strings ached. “ Mrs. Strange 
has implored me to allow her to see you. I am sure I need 
not ask you to be self-possessed, though I fear it can make 
little difference.” 

There was a dryness in his throat and a fire in his eyes, 
as Val followed the doctor through the long corridor and 
up the stairs. A moment later, Constance reached feeble 
arms toward him. 

“ You have always loved me,” she whispered, “ in spite 
of the shadow that fell between us. ” 

“ Always,” he answered huskily. “ I shall love you 
till I die. ” He buried his piteous face in the pillow beside 
her, and those were the last Words she heard in this world. 
The lax arm that lay across his neck told him the truth; 
but he did not move until some one entered and touched 
him on the shoulder. Then he arose and looked at the 
face before him for a minute, and walked away without a 
tear or a kiss or a murmur. It told against him in the 
common foolish tale; but in his soul lay the unutterable 
burden of coming hopeless years, and whatever broken 
gleam of light the world had held for him seemed at that 
moment to go out — forever. 

The doctor left the house of mourning, and was called 
to another case. He carried the news with him; and be- 
fore it was two hours old, Gerard Lumby heard it. He 
had shown grief once, and was on his guard now, and his 


YALEXTIXE STRAXCTE. 


363 


Spartan heart carried him away alone to the rocky slope 
of Welbeck Head. To die loveless — the woman he had 
loved. If the man had loved her and been faithful to her, 
lie could have borne to see her happy. As he thought this, 
and grief and hatred inextinguishable tore his heart, he 
sat upon a gray bowlder, so still that he might have seemed 
a statue, in spite of the storm within. And behind him a 
pall as black as Death climbed up the western heaven, and 
blotted out the sun, and touched the zenith, and spread 
out and down until it draped the sky from west to east and 
from north to south. There was no sign of wind; but the 
vast sheet of cloud crept onward as if by its own volition, 
throwing forward great ragged feelers of the color of red- 
hot copper. By and by this hue, as of heated metal, 
spread over all the doleful under-sky, and the face of the 
heavens was livid, as though some gigantic fury were held 
back there by the strong spirit of a god. Then, without 
further warning, before one drop of rain had fallen, or one 
sigh of wind had spoken to the ear, a flash of lightning 
fell, and close upon it came a roar so near, so sudden and 
so terrible, that he leaped to his feet, and whilst it lasted 
felt his own passions stricken deaf and dumb and blind. 
The rain lashed him like a whip, and the wind released, 
swept out of the western darkness with gusts against which 
he felt it difficult to stand. The lightning and the thunder 
seemed one, they came so close together; and the echoes of 
the first tremendous peal were still buffeting windily from 
rock to rock, when another came upon them, and smote 
their mockeries dead with overwhelming sound; and again 
the ferocious echoing laughter of the hills broke out, and 
.again the thunder slew it, and again it rose,, till the clamor 
;seemed scarcely less of earth than heaven. And amidst all 
this, his passions rose from stupor, and leaped to madness, 
and for once in a life the forces of nature seemed strained 
to find voice for a human soul. 

As he stood thus, resigned in unmeasured inward tem- 
pest to the storm, he saw on a sudden that he was not 
alone upon the headland; and in the next flash that split 
the gloom and held the landscape quivering whilst he might 
have counted three, he knew the figure of the man he 
hated. Yal Strange was there, scarce fifty yards away, 
flying upward along the broken path. Not knowing why 
he followed, Gerard sprung after him. It was as yet no 


3G4 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


more than evening; but the storm had casta shadow which 
anticipated night, and the lightning was needed to show 
the way. In the deep gloom which followed every flash, 
he lost the flying figure; but with each succeeding flash it 
seemed cast out of night again, no nearer and no further 
than before. Strain as he would, he could not decrease the 
distance which separated them by a single yard. He never 
paused in the intensity in which every fiber of soul and body 
was set upon the chase, to think of a reason for his enemy's 
presence there. There was no thought within him apart 
from those the tempest spoke for him of madness and re- 
venge. When he fell, as he did often, he felt no shock or 
pain. The storm gave the sole counsel he heeded, and 
seemed to lift him on its wing, and yet with equal power to 
guide the other's footsteps. 

Tempest-borne, pursuer and pursued fled upward. They 
were far past the Hollow which lay below them on the 
right of their course, and from the first till now they had 
taken a precipitate road, a mere sheep-track, shunned by the 
feet of men. The subtle fluid showed the broad, bare 
shoulder of the headland, and they were within three hun- 
dred yards of the sheer edge. Here for a second the hunt- 
ed figure paused, and Gerard seeing this paused also. In 
that second, he knew his purpose for the first time, and 
consciously surveyed it. Though they fell together, he 
would cast this villain over the precipice. He kept his 
eyes on the spot where he had last seen his quarry, until 
the lightning cast him out of the dark again, and then he 
saw that he was moving slowly onward. Gerard followed 
slowly, and they kept their distance still. And now the 
storm began to decrease in violence, and as he reached the 
summit of the Head, the pursuer saw that all along the 
western sea-line there was a yellow gleam of light, and 
that the clouds had broken there in scattered rags of pur- 
ple, which trailed over a sky of tarnished gold. He saw, 
too, that this rift of gold was growing larger, and that in a 
little while the storm would cease almost as suddenly as it 
had fallen. Here, on the bare scalp of the headland, there 
was a grewsome twilight cast from the breach in the west- 
ern clouds, and the lightning showed paler in it than it 
had done below, against the darkness of the higher skies. 

He saw these things as one who did not see them, and 
all his thought was of the man ahead and how to stalk 


YALEKTIKE STRAKGE. 


3G5 


him. To go on at a rush might be fatal to his purpose; 
for he knew, from many a trial in boyhood and youth, that 
Val Strange was fleeter of foot than he, and could outdis- 
tance and outlast him. So, with a cold deadliness of in- 
tent, as absorbing as the heat and passion of pursuit had 
been, he chose his ground and crept from bowlder to bowl- 
der, nearer and nearer. The rain had ceased to fall, and 
only now and again the lightning hung out its shuddering 
flame. The thunder rumbled miles and miles behind. The 
slower pace, the caution of the trail, and the cessation of 
the tempest, seemed to fit his mood anew, as completely 
as the wild chase and the tumult within had kept the tu- 
mult without in unison. He was within half a score of 
yards now from his quarry, and he crawled a little forward 
and coiled himself for a spring, when a wild voice broke 
on the late-born stillness. 

“ Good-bye, all !' ' it cried. “ Good-bye to the world I 
did the deviFs work in. Good-bye to the trusting friend I 
stabbed to the heart. God bless him. Oh, Gerard, Gerard ! 
And oh, my love, my love!” and the wild voice quivered 
down into sobs and murmured on brokenly: “ And the lit- 
tle baby four hours old. Good-bye. You won't know 
how your father died. They won't think the cold-hearted 
villain who played his friend so false, had the heart to die 
like this; or the heart to break as mine is broken. Con- 
stance! may be God will be good, and let me see you happy 
as you never could have been in this world." The voice 
pealed out again madly : “ Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye, 
all!" and a staggering step scattered the loose pebbles. 
Not six yards from the edge of the precipice lay a murder- 
ous figure coiled for a spring, and when the next staggering 
step came on, the spring was made. The suicide was 
caught in a grip of steel, and a voice cried out: “ Not that 
way, Yal! Not that way!" And they were weeping wild- 
ly in each other's arms. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

“hiram," she said dejectedly, “ areht't you goihg 

TO KISS ME?" 

That a girl with five thousand pounds to her fortune 
should be a lady's-maid any longer was of course downright 
ridiculous even in fancy. Even if Constance had lived, 


3G6 


VALEKTINE STRAHGE. 


Hoary's position would have been anomalous, and to seek 
a new post now was out of the question. So, with her five 
thousand pounds at the banker's in London, she provided 
herself with store of raiment, and took lodgings with a 
highly respectable old lady at Brierham, and waited with 
patience for Hiram to come and marry her. But a check- 
book is hardly what Hibernicus calls the height of good 
company, and she felt as lonely and as unprotected, and al- 
most as exposed to the ills of life, as in her days of poverty. 

She waited with patience, and no Hiram came; she 
waited with impatience, and no Hiram came; she took to 
tears, and still he stayed away. And so, one day in the 
close of August, with much trembling and fear, she took a 
car, and was driven to the gates of Lumby Hall. She 
waited there, and sent the driver with instructions to ask 
for Mr. Search, and to tell him that Miss Martial desired 
to speak to him. Now, in a little country town like Brier- 
ham, ^ a^body kens a ^body/' and everybody’s business is 
everybody else's business. Mary was an heiress and a per- 
son of note, and even the local gentlefolks took an interest 
in her fate, and gossiped about her over their tea-tables. It 
was almost universally settled that to marry a valet would 
be the height or depth of folly, though everybody expected 
that the lately favored lover would be pretty urgent in ad- 
vancing his claim. So, when it was known that she had 
received no visits, and had not stirred abroad, and had not 
indeed received so much as a note from anybody but Mr. 
Valentine Strange and her lawyers, it was concluded that 
the lover was dismissed. 

The relation of this history has sometimes made the 
mention of large sums compulsory, and King Croesus 
himself could not treat millions with greater sang-froid 
than the present writer. But I am not steeled by this 
familiarity with vast fortunes against a sense of the mani- 
fold values of even so small a fortune as five thousand 
pounds. “ Imagine, then, how glorious it glowed "■ — this 
snug little shining heap of money, in the eyes of certain 
unattached small gentry of the borough. At an interest of 
five per ‘cent, that snug little shining heap would yield an 
unappreciable fraction over four pounds sixteen shillings 
and a penny-three-farthings per week for every week of the 
fifty-two in a year, the principal remaining untouched — a 
metallic goose which could go on laying his hebdomadal 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


367 


golden egg forever. The chief butcher of the place — for 
not alone were the smaller gentry interested — was a rosy- 
faced, red-whiskered young bachelor who did a great trade, 
and sometimes rode to hounds, when even the swells of the 
meet would nod and say: “ How d'ye do. Banister?" Now 
he looked on that little fortune in the lump, and had vis- 
ions of plate-glass in the upstairs windows, and a new 
slaughter-house. The corn-chandler, who was a bachelor 
also, turned it over in his mind, and saw a new frontage 
for his High Street premises. Captain Staggers, who 
boasted himself a cadet of the house of Windgall — the 
Earl of Wind gall's seat, as all the world knows, is Shoul- 
dershott Castle, in the north — Captain Staggers, who once 
held a commission in the county militia, and whose title 
stuck to him, seedy and shaky and disreputable as he was, 
saw, when he thought of that snug little sum, a perfect 
vista of bar-maids serving drinks to a perfect vista of rehab- 
ilitated Captain Staggerses. Mr. Quill, the lately imported 
Irish solicitor, saw a larger house; and his mother, Mrs. 
Croke, a second time widowed, had a beatific vision of new 
window curtains and an Axminster carpet. 

Little Mary, unwitting of these fancies, sat in the car, 
drawn a little off the road in the shade, and waited for 
Hiram Search. The driver, though he was a discreet man, 
and by not so much as a wink betrayed himself, knew all 
about it, and had the clearest understanding of the situa- 
tion. Keturning after an absence of ten minutes, he 
stated that Hiram would follow by and- by; and hinting in 
a conversational manner that the day was dry, that in the 
coming interview it “ ud be awkward to have a fool like 
him a-lookin' on," and that there was a public-house three 
hundred yards away, he received a gratuitous sixpence, and 
departed. Mary stood up in the car, and craned her neck 
to make observation of the carriage-drive, and in a little 
while saw Hiram, with his long legs striding out like the 
legs of a pair of compasses. At that spectacle her courage 
all deserted her, and she descended from the vehicle, and 
hiding herself behind the body of it, waited with palpitating 
bosom. Hiram came, looked about him, saw the car, and 
the fluttering dress behind it, and walked straight to where 
she stood. 

“ Now," he said, “ I take this kind of you — I take it 
very kind." 


3(38 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


“ Hiram !** said little Mary, looking up at him appeal- 
ingly, with one outstretched hand set toward him. He took 
the hand and shook it gravely, repeating that he took it 
very kind of her. “ Hiram/* she said dejectedly, “ arei/t 
you going to kiss me?** Her lips pouted and trembled a 
little, like cherries that kiss each other on a shaken branch. 

“ Cert*nly!** said Hiram, and did it with solemn alacrity. 

“ Why don*t you meet me as you used to?** she asked 
tremulously. 

“ Wal, my pretty,** said Hiram, “ in the words of the 
immortal bard, Scotland stajids not wheer it did.** 

I don*t know what you mean,** she answered, with an 
air of assumed disdain. “ You* re not true-hearted, 
Hiram.** 

“ Mebbe I ain*t,** said the accused; “but I fancy I 
am.** 

“ Then,** said she with irresistible logic, “ why didn*t 
you put your arm round my waist?* * 

“ My dear,** said Hiram, serpentining his long arm 
about her, “ I*d always rather be asked into a man*s house 
than be kicked out of it. I take this very kind of you, and 
very loyal an* true-hearted, my little dear.** He looked 
down at her with his queer sallow face beaming. “ You 
ain*t sp*iled by fortune,** he said. “ Are you?** 

“ Hiram!** cried Mary again, and made an indignant 
pretense of tearing herself away from him. “ How could 
you think it of me?** 

“ I didn*t,** said Hiram. “ Look at me. Is this here 
cheek of mine grown pale with care? Is my beamin* eye 
grown dim with hidden tears? Is there any sign in my 
hull anatomy of the gnawin* of the canker-worm? N o, 
my dear. I ain*t been fretting, not an atom. I*ve just 
been waiting for you to come, and say: ‘ Hiram, your 
pretty loving little gal ain*t changed.* And now you come 
and say it, don*t you?** She said she did; and indeed, as 
she nestled to him and gazed up at him, it looked as if she 
meant it. “ That*s all right,** pursued Hiram. “ Don*t 
you see now, I couldn*t come to you and say: ‘ You took 
me when you was poor, and you* 11 have to stick to me now 
you* re wealthy.* I couldn*t even seem to mean that. I 
won*t say you*d have broke my heart, if you hadn*t come. 
My heart* s a tolerable tough old muscle, and it*d take a 
deal of breaking I wouldn*t say it wouldn*t have ached. 


VALENTINE STKANGE. 


369 


I think it would; but there’s a margin between achin’ and 
breaking ain’t there?” Mary supposed so, laughing at his 
quaintly serious face, and holding his gaunt hand in both 
hers. “ But now,” resumed Hiram, “ there’s no such 
thing as a clean hank as’ll run five minutes without ravel- 
ing in this world, is there? And we’ve got trouble in front 
of us. ” 

“ Trouble?” she repeated. “ What should trouble us?” 

“ Don’t you be scared,” said Hiram. “ Nothing much. 
But you can see I’m bound to the boss for awhile to come, 
anyhow. Now, it stands to nature you want to get mar- 
ried, and so do I. And it stands to reason that a young 
lady with a fortune can’t have her husband acting in my 
present capacity. In any other man’s service I should feel 
the present capacity mean. I own up to that; I should 
feel it a derogation from any American citizen’s privileges 
and proper feelings. But not with Gerard Lumby, 
Esquire. No. Well now, you see, I don’t want to scratch 
a sore place, but he’s had a great deal of trouble, and I am 
kind of sorry for him and attached to him. He’s got used 
to me, just as you have, my dear; and if I went away just 
now, he’d miss me. He’s mending. I can’t make it out; 
but from the night Mrs. Strange died, he’s that changed I 
hardly know him.” 

“ How is he changed?” asked Mary, speaking rather be- 
cause Hiram paused than for any other reason. She could 
not blame Hiram’s unselfish devotion; but you may be 
sure that she looked forward to the waiting it promised 
with no great rejoicing. 

“ He used to be just as hard and cold,” said Hiram, 
“ as a frozen anvil. He wa’n’t like a man after you three 
went away together. And now he’s as sweet and mild with 
everybody as a roarin’ democrat receivin’ a British Prince. 
He’s sad sometimes — that mournful, it’d melt the innards of 
a Bengal tiger only to look at him. But it ain’t the same kind 
o’ sadness; and, him and Valentine Strange was arm in 
arm walking up and down this road two mortal hours the 
day afore yesterday. ” He paused after that statement, as 
if he expected to be told that it was incredible. Mary re- 
ceived it with an astonishment which justified his expecta- 
tion. 

“ Arm in arm!” she said. “ Mr. Strange’ and Mr. 
Lumby! Mr. Gerard?” 


370 


VALENTINE STIIANGE. 


“ Arm in arm,” he said. “ And looking as friendly as 
a pair of rival actors. Only it was plain they meant the 
friendliness, and the rival actors pretty gen' ally don't. " 

At this moment, a step sounded in the lane, and Mary, 
escaping from his arm, peeped round the corner of the 
moss-grown wall. “ The driver's coming back," she 
whispered. 

“ Kiss me quick, my honey!” said Hiram. “ I shall see 
you soon. Likely as not, drop in and ask you for a cup 
of tea this evenin'.” 

The driver appeared ; and Mary, with a final shake- 
hands, as if no tenderer farewell had just been taken, en- 
tered the car. Hiram, with might gravity of demeanor, 
watched her driven away, walked back along the graveled 
drive, entered the house, and marched straight into the 
presence of his master. 

“ Well, Search,” said Gerard, “ what is it?” 

“ Can you spare me this afternoon and evenin'?" Hiram 
asked. 

“ Yes,” said Gerard, looking up from a book which lay 
on the table before him. “Search,” he said suddenly, 
and with a little smile, “I have been neglecting your affairs 
very sadly. Are you going to Brierham?” 

Here, for the first and last time in this narrative, let it 
be recorded that Hiram blushed. “I am,” he said, de- 
fensively. 

“ Of course you are. Why haven't you gone before?" 

“ Well,” said Hiram, “ there was reasons, good rea- 
sons. ” 

“ No trouble, I hope?" said Gerard. 

“ None in the world,” said Hiram. 

“ When do you think of getting married?” asked Gerard. 
“ I suppose I shall lose you soon?” 

“No; you won't,” said Hiram. “We ain't in any 
hurry." 

“ Very well,” said Gerard quietly. “ She's living with 
old Mrs. Norton, I think — isn't she, in Brierham High 
Street? Ah, I thought so. Will you tell somebody to 
saddle Boland and bring him round? I sha'n't want you 
again to-day.” 

“ Thank you," said Hiram, and went away on his 
errand. 


VALEHTIHE STBAHGE. 371 

cc No train for two hours/ ' said Gerard to himself with 
a sad little smile. •“ I can do it in an hour easily.” 

Ten minutes later, he was at the hall door in attire for 
the saddle. A groom led Roland round; and the young 
fellow, mounting, rode away, straight into Brierham town, 
and dismounting at the hotel, walked across the quiet 
sunny street and rang at Mrs. Norton's bell. It happened 
at that moment that Mary was in converse with Mrs. Nor- 
ton. Your feminine lover seeks a confidante as a duck 
seeks the water. This, like other generalizations, may be 
disputed by singular examples; but Mary was not a very 
exceptional young woman, and Mrs. Norton knew how the 
land lay; whilst the butcher and the corn-chandler, and 
the seedy captain and the Irish Quill, and hoc genus omne , 
surveyed it wrongly, and their judgment of its qualities 
was all awry. At the statement that a gentleman was in 
the parlor and wished to see her, the old lady bustled down, 
and was amazed to find Mr. Gerard Lumby standing there. 

“ Mrs. Norton/' said Gerard, shaking hands with her, 
“ how do you do? I am here as a conspirator, and I want 
you to be another.'' 

“ Lawkamussy, Mr. Lumby!" said the old lady, quite 
flustered. 

Gerard explained. “ I want to see two people happy, 
Mrs. Norton. One of them is the young person now resid- 
ing under your protection, and the other is — '' He paused. 

“I hope it's the right man, sir," said the old lady, 
smiling nervously. 

“ I think it is," said Gerard. “ Do you know who the 
right man is? Very well. If I am wrong, correct me. I 
think the right man, who is in a position very much below 
his worth, wants to put off the marriage because he is at- 
tached to his employer, and because he thinks his employer 
can not spare him. '' 

“ It's like a dream, your saying so, Mr. Lumby," the 
old lady cried out. 64 She's been just telling me them 
very words upstairs. " 

“ Very well, Mrs. Norton," said Gerard. “ I thought it 
was so, and I wanted to be sure of it." 

“ She's a dear nice girl," said Mrs. Norton, doubtfully. 
“ Do you think, sir, as he's worthy of her?" 

“ My dear lady," said Gerard, “ Mr. Search is a pearl 
among men. The woman who marries him is to be envied, 


372 


VALENTINE STRANGLE. 


if she has only the sense to know his value. And whatever 
you may think of his position, he is just as well-to-do as 
she is. But I forgot. That's a secret. Don't say a word 
about it till they're married. " So he shook hands, and 
rode away again, leaving the old lady almost bursting with 
her secret. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

44 MISTER," SAID HIRAM, CQLDLY, 44 THIS TAKES THE 
SHINE OFF EVERYTHING." 

In an hour's time or thereabouts Mr. Search arrived, in 
a frock-coat, tightly bottoned, a slim, tall hat, and very ac- 
curately fitting boots and gloves. His solemnity and dig- 
nity were tremendous. The solemnity remained until he 
took his leave — the dignity vanished when he crossed the 
threshold and had once shaken the hostess's hand, and 
nothing remained of it but that serious cordialness and 
beautiful sincerity that mark the good American. 

In the course of the evening Mr. Search was somehow 
beguiled into a narration of certain of his experiences of 
the world and of men and manners. Little Mary sat and 
worshiped him, and the old lady was filled with wonder 
and admiration. It appeared that he had been pretty 
nearly everywhere, and seen pretty nearly everything, to 
the limited experience of his listeners. Mrs. Norton con- 
fessed him a remarkable man, and was known to say of 
him afterward that he spoke English beautifully. It would 
seem that she regarded it as being a tongue originally 
foreign to him. Hiram left early, since he had a two 
mile walk from the railway station, and reaching the Hall, 
found his employer waiting for him. 

44 Search," said Gerard, 44 1 want to speak to you." 
Hiram stood quietly before him; but Gerard rose and be- 
gan to pace the room with unequal steps. By and by he 
paused, and stood straight before Hiram and looked him 
in the face. 44 1 have it on my mind to say something 
very serious," he said, deliberately. 44 It is not very easy 
to doit. Hiram Search — shake hands." Hiram shook 
hands, with his gaze fixed on Gerard's. 44 You and I know 
from what you saved me. I can never pay you for it; I 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 373 

shall never want to feel that I have discharged the debt. 
But will you let me pay you in part?” 

They still gripped hands, and looked at each other 
steadfastly. 

“ Mister/* said Hiram, gravely, “ you paid me long 
ago. You enlisted me with this half-sovereign,” touching 
it with the thumb and finger of his left hand as it hung 
from his watch-chain. “ It waVt the gift — it was the way 
of it. I shall take it kindly if you will never speak of that 
night again. * * 

“ Will you let me try in part to thank you?” 

“ Fd rather it rested air this,” said Hiram. The grip 
he gave the hand he held at the last word told Gerard all 
he meant. 

“ That can*t be,” said Gerard. “ In the first place, we 
are not going to part, I hope; but you are out of my serv- 
ice from this hour.” 

“ No,” said Hiram. 

“ Yes,” insisted Gerard, with a husky laugh, “ I dis- 
charge you. And now, you true friend and honest man, 
will you do me the very greatest favor I can ask you? Will 
you go away and get married and be happy, as you deserve 
to be, and — ” with a hurried shame-facedness which made 
the gift gracious — “ will you take this as a wedding-present 
from a friend?” 

“ This ” was a strip of paper addressed to a great bank- 
ing-house in London. 

“ Mister,” said Hiram, coldly, “ this takes the shine off 
everything.” 

“ You can*t. refuse me,” said Gerard. “ YouTl take it 
to please me. From a friend. Search — from a friend. 
And to a friend — the best I ever had. Good-night.” 

He shook Hiram hurriedly by the hand again and left 
him. 

Hiram dug the slip of paper sulkily into his waistcoat 
pocket, and stood for a moment immersed in ‘unpleasing 
emotions. “ I think it*s meaner,” he said at last, rousing 
himself, “ to refuse to take it than it would have been not 
to offer it. I wish there was no such thing as money in the 
hull wide world. Freezes everything, it does. ” 

But he ended by accepting the gift; and when the natu- 
ral reluctance he had at first felt was over he experienced 
a wonderful glow of pride and satisfaction in it. lie packed 


374 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


his traps and left Lumby Hall next day; but before he 
went old Mr. Lumby sent for him and bade him good-bye 
and shook hands with him. Hiram's bewilderment at this 
unexpected proceeding was not allowed to last. 

“ My son tells me, Mr. Search,” the old man said, with 
quavering dignity, “ that you and he have an unusual tie 
between you, and that you saved him from a great peril by 
unusual courage and resolution. My son is very dear to 
me, Mr. Search, and I am grateful to any man who has 
done him a service.” 

Mrs. Lumby thanked him also, and Milly gave him a 
hearty farewell. The women had some guess as to the 
nature of Hiram's service, though even they were miles 
away from comprehending the real value of it; but Ger- 
ard's father had no suspicion. 

The head-groom was a great chum of Hiram's, and pre- 
tended business in order to have the fun of a drive with 
him into Brierham. Their way led them by the road a 
hungry tramp had traveled once upon a time; and wnen 
they reached the brow of a certain little hill Hiram got out 
and sat upon a certain stone there, and smoked in solemn 
silence for a time, and then walked on beside the dog-cart 
to a gate, where he paused again. He took the half sov- 
ereign in his hand and looked at it on the spot where it 
had first come into his possession; and then, with a heart 
full of quiet thanksiving, he climbed back into the dog-cart 
and left those scenes behind him. 

Nothing less than a marriage by special license would 
content him, and he and Mary were married by special 
license accordingly. And when the ceremony was over, by 
way of wedding-tour, what should the quaint creature do 
but buy a dog-cart and a noble horse, and drive with his 
happy little wife along every foot of the ground he had 
wandered over on his way to London! He told her the 
whole story. He showed her the public-house where he 
had learned the art of chair-caning. He even went inside 
and sat upon one of the chairs his hands had caned, and 
drank a glass of ale so seated; and the landlord, not know- 
ing him from Adam, was mightily obsequious to him. 
And I do not think there was ever a happier wedding-tour 
than that simple journey afforded. The September lanes 
were lovely all the way, and the wedded pair had splendid 
weather. They drove right into London, and Hiram drank 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


375 


a bottle of champagne with that official of the omnibus 
company who had engaged and discharged him; and 
dined regally with his wife at the restaurant where he had 
served as waiter; and paid a pious pilgrimage to the house 
where he had first met Mary. 

Then, after a month amid the gayeties of the capital, he 
sold the horse and the dog-cart and went down to Brierham; 
and on the outskirts of the little town he bought a cottage, 
and there lived in peace and plenty and homely content- 
ment, not spending more than half his income. 

At this date he is the father of a boy whose name is Ger- 
ard, and whose godfather is no less a person than the mas- 
ter of Lumby Hall. Hiram himself is an ardent politician, 
and is counted a safe draw at any political meeting. He 
fought the last general election with great valor in behalf 
of a Radical candidate against Mr. Valentine Strange, who 
secured a seat in spite of him. His invective against the 
policy of Lord Beaconsfield is said to have been remarkably 
vivid, and many of the leaders of the “ Brierham Morning 
Star ” at that stirring period were believed to have been 
inspired by him. 

Good-bye, Hiram! Rugged, gentle, generous, brave, 
farewell! Ill as I have drawn you, you may stand as a 
type, which has been limned better many a time by abler 
hands, of the manhood of the West — independent, valor- 
ous, and kindly; racy of the virtues of freedom; without 
fear and without reproach. 

Mr. Jolly bore his daughter’s death with that Spartan 
fortitude which belongs to the great race of egotists. I 
will not say he did not grieve; but he talked too much of 
his bereavement for my simple fancy, and managed his 
handkerchief too artistically as he stood beside the grave. 
There is a sort of man who will mountebank grief at a 
funeral, as he will mountebank joy at a wedding, and 
patriotic indignation at an election meeting, who, if he 
shed tears, must needs do it with a grace, and dances you 
an oratorical minuet over the slain in a Roumelian atrocity. 

Of one sincerity of regret Mr. Jolly was guilty. His son- 
in-law had no filial yearnings toward him, and did not beg 
him to make his house his home. You meet Mr. Jolly in 
real life now and then, and I can not conceive of him any- 
where as being other than a bore. I fear that sermons are 
wasted upon him, and that portraiture is a vain art for 


376 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


him. Meeting his reflection in these pages, he may say — 
I think I hear him — that it is a most unfaithful and un- 
characteristic sketch, and not in the least like anybody. 

There are few wounds from which the human heart will 
not recover, if they are inflicted in its youth. And per- 
haps the best way of curing such wounds is to leave them 
to their own healing, and do whatever plain duties lie be- 
fore you. This was Val Strange's cure, and it succeeded 
as well as could be hoped. From that wild scene on Wel- 
beck Head he went back to such work as he could find, 
and then and there left the Primrose Way forever. He 
has not yet lived down the beliefs his neighbors entertained 
about the callousness of his conduct toward his young wife 
and his hardness at her death. And so true are the world's 
verdicts and so well worth listening to, that Mr. Jolly 
passes as a model of paternal grief and tender, fatherly re- 
membrance of the dead, while Yal is still spoken of as hav- 
ing exhibited himself as a monster of no feeling. It strikes 
some people as a curious thing that so “ dour " and hard a 
man as Mr. Gerard Lumby was believed to be should ever 
have overlooked and forgiven the wrong Val Strange did 
against him. And seeing that the two men, though they 
meet but seldom, are singularly attached to each other, 
these wiseacres conclude that Gerard has but a shallow aort 
of nature after all, and is incapable of any very strong and 
enduring emotion. But these are mainly people who make 
a great point of their pretensions to “ real character. " 

Whatever may still be thought of Yal's relations with 
his beautiful wife, there are no mistakes made about his 
love for his little daughter. He loves her with a haunting, 
remorseful tenderness, a sad and deep affection; and the 
common people say that little Constance is the very apple 
of Squire Strange's eye. 

Aunt Lucretia inoculated Reginald only too easily with 
her own beliefs, and the little man for a long time hated 
Yal with a mingled scorn and loathing which were at times 
almost too much to bear. But he threw himself, on the 
other hand, enthusiastically on Gerard's side, and made a 
hero of him, and, little as he knew, made some near 
guesses at the sort of storms which had passed through his 
soul. This intimacy with Gerard cost him dear, and yet 
gave him a sweet remembrance* which will last his life- 


VALENTINE STEANGE. 377 

time. He hung about Lumby Hall a good deal in those 
days, and a singular change was noticed in him. 

46 1 never had any feminine society, Mrs. Lumby,” he 
said on one occasion. 44 That is, I never enjoyed any 
lengthened period of home-life, don’t you know, madam; 
and I feel the loss — the deprivation — deeply. Now, it’s a 
fact recognized even by the ancients that female associations 
soften the manners. I can’t say I think a lot of the an- 
cients, as a rule, though they do make such a fuss of them 
at school and at the ’varsities; but they were certainly 
right there — don’t you think so?” 

And so the bald-headed little man fluttered in conversa- 
tion in a manner altogether- new and noticeable. He was 
nervous — he was hurried and flurried in his speech — and 
yet he would talk; and was so remarkably eager to be 
agreeable and complimentary, that he ran some risk of be- 
coming a nuisance. 

During one of Reginald’s visits to Lumby Hall, two 
years after his sister’s death, Gerard, unexpectedly entering 
his bedroom, beheld a sight which shook his sides with 
mirth. We suffer, and we think we shall never laugh 
more; but the days and the months go by, and the burden 
of grief is somehow lightened, and then conies a jest some- 
where, and we laugh again as heartily as ever. Only, per- 
haps, the laughter leaves us a little sadder than before, and 
acts as though it were a signal to call the shadow back 
again. 

Reginald, when Gerard came unexpectedly upon him, 
was in his shirt-sleeves, and was hard at work with some 
grewsome, gluey substance out of a bottle, polishing his 
baldness with both hands, as a French polisher works at 
mahogany. And there on the table before him was spread 
each individual device of that great fraternity of quacks 
who gift the bald with liquid hair-seed at seven-and-six per 
bottle — a score of them, and nearly all unstoppered. Tak- 
ing in the whole situation at a glance, Gerard fell against 
the door-post and lifted up his voice and laughed outra- 
geously. He screamed and neighed and held his sides; and 
the little man, with his hands still at his head, turned 
round, and stared at him with a visage so rueful and 
amazed that mirth became almost heroic in intensity. He 
smiled feebly at length, and went on polishing, with a look 
of shame. 


378 


YALEHTItfE STKAtfGE. 


“ It's all very well to laugh,” he said, when Gerard had 
done laughing, and, in a condition of infantine weakness, 
was wiping his eyes, “ you curled and golden young Anak. 
But how would you feel if you were a small cove like me, 
five feet four, and as bald as a billiard-ball? I don’t be- 
lieve any of ^em are of any use,” he added, piteously. 
“ And this tack ” — indicating the bottle whose contents he 
had last employed — “ is so awfully sticky and sweet, that 
whenever I use it the flies get at it, and 1 feel like a catch- 
'em-alive 0. " 

“ Don't!” said Gerard, raising a protesting hand. “ I 
can't stand it!” And suddenly the little man sat down, 
with his hands well out from his garments, and laughed 
almost as heroically as Gerard. 

“ You don't go about in that way, do you?” inquired 
Gerard, breathlessly, at last. 

“ No,” said the little man. “ It's a self-imposed sen- 
tence of imprisonment to use it. It's very hard, because a 
fellow can't even lie down, lest he should stick to some- 
thing; and besides that, I'd sooner be as I am than bald in 
spots, as I should be if it made the hair grow, and I had 
rubbed it olf in places. There is a dreary sort of interest,” 
he added, “ in sitting before a looking-glass and betting 
with yourself against any special fly making a landing.” 

Lord Byron lias noted the indubitable fact that laughter 
leaves us doubly serious, but this was a droll introduction 
to a love-confidence. 

“ Why do you inflict these miseries upon yourself?” 
asked Gerard. 

“Well, it's unpleasant to know that you're singular," 
the little man responded. “ You feel ostracized from your 
kind, don't you know?” 

“ Bubbish!” said Gerard. 

“ Well, that's nonsense, of course, and was meant for 
nonsense. But I don't want to look like Methuselah yet, 
and I get taken for all manner of ages.” 

“ Jolly,” said Gerard, “ I begin to think you are in 
love.” 

He had not the remotest belief that this shaft would hit 
the white, or he would never have loosed it. 

“So i am,'' said Beginald. Gerard sat grave and 
silent. “ Why shouldn't I be?" asked the little man. 
“ I'm not Old Parr. And look here, Lurnby, you can tell 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


379 


me, perhaps, whether I have a chance.” He looked 
guiltily at Gerard, and said, in a manner more than half 
aggressive, “ It's your Cousin Milly.** 

“ I can't tell/ * said Gerard. “ Go and speak to her. 
You have my best wishes.** 

“ It*s horribly absurd, you know,** said the little man. 
“ Of course it’s awfully absurd. I used to watch Va — 
Fellows I knew I used to watch, and I used to laugh at *em 
no end. I never thought I should come to this, ** he added, 
indicating the bottles on the dressing-table; “ but when a 
man*s as far gone as I am he *11 do anything to make him- 
self feel a little worthier.** 

When a man gets to^so pronounced a badinage as this 
concerning himself it is not easy for anything less than a 
hippopotamus to feel thin-skinned. Gerard saw that the 
little man was almost hysterical in his desire to hide him- 
self, and sauntered away, therefore, with an aspect of care- 
lessness, repeating his advice. 

In a quarter of an hour Eeginald descended, with no 
trace of his late pursuits about him; and seeking Milly, 
found her in the garden, plunged desperately into the 
question at his heart — and was rejected. She respected 
him — she liked him — she offered him a sister's affection. 
She let him down as gently as she could; and he went away 
sadly, threw all the preparations out of window, and 
grieved. He announced his departure that evening; and 
Gerard, oft course, knew the cause of it, and was very sorry 
for the stanch friend and the brother of his dead love. Be- 
fore Eeginald went away, however, he spoke to Milly 
again. 

“ You*re very good and tender-hearted/* he said; “ and 
when I*m gone you *11 very likely accuse yourself of having 
made me miserable. Don*t do that/* he pleaded, stoutly. 

“ I*m not going to pay myself the poor compliment of 
saying I don’t care. Of course I care; but I don*t know 
who it was just now 9 , but there was a lady of whom some- 
body said that to know her was a liberal education. And 
I shall be a better fellow for it; and I*m very much obliged 
to you for putting it so kindly. Good-bye/* he said, 
briskly; but the tears were in his eyes. 

Mrs. Lumby spoke of his departure, and asked Gerard 
privately if he could divine what had driven Eeginald away, 
lie, thinking his mother innocent of the truth, respected 


380 


VALENTINE STKAI^GE. 


his friend*s secret; but it was soon apparent that she knew 
it, and had but asked her question for an object of her 
own. 

“ Why has Milly refused so many offers?** she asked. 
“ Is there nobody in the world will suit her, or is she in 
love with somebody already?** 

Gerard was silent; but something in his mother* s face 
and voice recalled to his mind the time when Milly had 
clung to him, begging him to abandon his purposed pursuit 
of his enemy. While he was thinking of this his mother 
returned to the charge. 

“ Can you guess who it may be, Gerard?** 

There was that curious something in her face and voice 
again; but he was not of that tribe of dandies who are 
ready at any mere hint to believe a woman in love with 
them. 

“ Why should /guess?** he asked, as lightly as he could, 
and rising, made as if to leave the room. 

His mother arose also and stood before him. “ Can*t 
you guess, Gerard?** 

He stood a little awkwardly before her, and would have 
made any light answer serve to turn the question aside, if 
he could have found one. But none occurred to him. His 
mother *s reiterated question seemed to point to him, and 
the remembrance he had in his mind gave him the same 
indication; but he was loath to accept it. To love and 
love*s delights his heart was dead. Love is not so poor a 
thing in all hearts that a year or two can serve to bury it 
out of memory. 

“ Gerard/* she said, seeing him silent, and perhaps mis- 
taking the slight traces of confusion which declared them- 
selves, “ I have known it a long time. She began to care 
for you when — when your troubles began, dear.** 

“ If it is so,** he returned, “ you should have kept her 
secret, mother.** 

“Oh,** she cried, a little wounded,' “you are not to 
think that Milly has spoken to me, or that she guesses that 
I know. But women see these things.** 

“I hope you are mistaken,** answered Gerard; and hav- 
ing kissed her, left the room. 

He was not a young man from whom caresses came 
lightly or often; and the kiss seemed to his mother to set a 
.certain seal of solemnity upon his refusal. A day or two 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 381 

later she began quietly to question Milly as to the reason 
of her manifold refusals of eligible young manhood. 

“ You don't want me to go away, do you, aunty ?” 
asked the young lady; and the old one entered a warm 
disclaimer. “ Let me stay with you,” pleaded Milly. “ I 
shall never marry,” she added. 

“ Until the right man asks you,” returned the old lady. 

“ Let us wait till he comes, dear aunt,” said Milly, 
“ before we say any more about it.” So the question 
dropped, and was no more reverted to. 

You remember, in the famous wooing of Duncan Gray, 
the sly Scottish brevity of humor with which the narrator 
sets forth the final causes which brought the young people 
together. Gerard, like Duncan, was “a lad o' grace;” 
but Milly' s case was by no means piteous to look at. She 
seemed, on the contrary, to be very fairly happy; she was 
always good-tempered and cheerful; she made the old house 
bright with a sweet, equable brightness. Gerard began to 
bethink himself, what would it look like if she left it? 
His mother's revelation hung in his mind a good deal; he 
admitted that Milly would make an ideal wife for any man 
happy enough to win her. Yet there was no room in his 
heart for any new love. He watched her as she tended 
his father and warmed the old man's last dim years with a 
gentle and untiring love, like that of a good daughter. He 
watched her as she cheered his mother, and saw in her the 
only sunshine the house held within it in these gray days. 
He thought highly of her, and regarded her with what he 
felt as a deep, brotherly affection, but no more. 


, CHAPTEE XLVIII. 

“ I HAVE BEEN BLIND,” SAID GERARD. “ I HAVE LOVED 
HER THESE TWO YEARS PAST.” 

While things were at this pass the new ow?ier of the 
Grange, a handsome young bachelor, well provided with 
the good things of life, began to make advances, and was 
remarkably well received by Mrs. Lumby. Gerard's 
mother was one of those curiously unselfish women who 
find delight in others' happiness, and make no schemes for 
their own, and who are generally very happy in despite of 


382 


VALENTINE 'STRANGE. 


fortune, perhaps because of their own unselfishness. Ger- 
ard had liked the new neighbor well enough, to begin with; 
and though he was slower to make friendships now than he 
had ever been, he manifested a liking for Mr. Graham's 
society. But somehow — construe me this who will— he be- 
gan suddenly to discern some wretched affectations in the 
man's manner. His whiskers offended him, for one thing, 
and he hated to see a man part his hair in the middle and 
wear an eyeglass. Curiously enough, the birth of these 
small mislikings was contemporaneous with a seeming de- 
sire on Mr. Graham's part to be a good deal at Lumby 
Hall, and to inveigle Milly into private talk, and to waylay 
her in a chance manner in her drives, walks and visits. A 
little coolness sprung up between Gerard and the new ac- 
quaintance, and once or twice Gerard greeted the casual 
mention of his name with chill ridicule of his smile — which 
was, perhaps, a little too frequent — or of his eyeglass, 
which was somewhat too transparently in the young gen- 
tleman's way. Mrs. Lumby, having favored his visits, 
and clearly discerned their object, was a little piqued. 

“ Gerard," she said, privately to him, “ you do injustice 
to Mr. Graham. No man is altogether free of peculiari- 
ties; he is a gentleman; he is very good to the poor, and 
his character is Unimpeachable." 

The young fellow growled a little, admitting that all this 
might be true, but demanding to know what the gentle- 
man in question saw to smirk at all day long. 

“ Lemonade is a very good drink in its way, no doubt," 
he said, with a reluctant laugh, “ but you don't always 
want it. What is the fellow always here for? One gets 
tired of him." 

“ He is paying his addresses to Milly," said the excel- 
lent woman, with some warmth. “ And you must not play 
the part of the dog in the manger, Gerard." 

“ What?" said he, with more briskness than was com- 
mon in him. “ Is she going to marry that fellow?" 

He wallfed on a step or two, with a stronger feeling of 
dislike than ever for Mr. Graham. 

“ I can't say how far the matter has gone," said Mrs. 
Lumby, in answer. “ But his intentions are evident, and 
I hope Milly will accept him. It is high time she was 
settled. " 

Gerard took this intimation with a worse grace than 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 383 

might have been expected of him. He would at least have 
liked, he said, to see her married to a worthy man. 

“ Is there anybody worthier in the field?” demanded his 
mother. 

To that query Milly's well-wisher returned no answer. 

A day came when the contemned Graham came, with his 
smile, and after an interview with Milly went away without 
it. He stayed away for a month or two; and Gerard 
missed him so far that at last he sent him a note asking 
him to join in a day's shooting. The old coldness died, 
and the two, without developing an heroic friendship, got 
on very well as neighbors, and were pleasant acquaint- 
ances. 

“ You get on very well with Mr. Graham noiu, Gerard,” 
said his mother, with an unkind emphasis on the 4 6 now. ' ' 

“ I like him better than I did,” said the young man, 
with perfect calm. He was by this time a justice of the 
peace, noticeable for a judicial patience in his conduct of 
such cases as came before him. Among his compeers was 
one Staines, a middle-aged man, a widower, and a large 
landowner. This was the one man whom Gerard really 
esteemed of all the unpaid justices of the county, and he 
spoke of him with reserved warmth at home, and finally 
brought him to Lumby Hall pretty often. But Mr. Staines 
began to come of his own initiative. There was very little 
glass in the gardens of the Hall, and his conservatories- 
were the finest in the whole country-side. He used to send 
melons, pines, grapes, and what not; and as for flowers, 
they began to bloom all the year round. The ill-regulated 
Gerard began to cool toward the admirable Staines, and 
Mrs. Lumby lost patience with him. 

“ Why have you quarreled with Mr. Staines?” she asked. 

“ We haven't quarreled,'' answered Gerard, quietly. 

“ You are not nearly so friendly as you were,” persisted 
his mother; and then broke out with, “ You are a dog in 
the manger, Gerard. You will neither marry Milly your- 
self nor let any man marry her. ” 

“ I don't want her to marry Staines, certainly,' ' he said, 
with provoking calmness. “ She mustn't be a nurse all 
her life. The man's five-and-forty, and has three chil- 
dren.” 

His mother sighed, and was fast giving him up as in- 
tractable. If Milly had only shown some favor to any one 


384 


VALENTINE STRANGE. 


of her wooers she would have had more hope That might 
stir him into action, she thought; and she even maneuvered 
to make it appear that the girl had a penchant for the 
widower; but without effect. 

All these things took time, of course; and, indeed, four 
years had gone by since Yal Strange had betrayed his 
friend. Many things which had at that time seemed im- 
possible had come about. Gerard had forgiven his enemy. 
He had done more — he -had saved his enemy's life in place 
of taking it. He had himself, after an awful repentance, 
settled down into peace of heart, or something very near it. 
And nearly all this time the thought had been in his mind 
— vaguely at first, but clearer and more clear as time went 
on — -that the best woman he had ever known in his life 
loved him, and was to be had almost for the asking. 
Messrs. Graham and Staines had done something between 
them to open his eyes to his own condition. But it was 
natural that in a heart so loyal there should be much ten- 
derness about disturbing the place of the dead. Con- 
sciously to admit a new love had something of an air of sac- 
rilege about it; and on the other hand there was a baseness 
of coxcombry about the idea of marrying Milly out of pity 
for her attachment — as if she could not live without him. 
And, indeed, Milly seemed happy and contented amid the 
multifarious duties she laid upon herself, and looked by no 
means like the love-lorn maideh of the lending library. 
But as widower Staines grew more and more persevering in 
his presentations of fruit and flowers, and more exigent in 
his attendance at the Hall, Gerard at last became alive to 
the fact, that however romance might reject the notion, he 
had within him capacities for loving a second time. There 
were none of the old wild transports of passion in this calm 
affection; but it was none the less a marriageable love, and 
he saw it. I am not altogether sure that the volcanic 
nature of his first love had not imbued him with ideas 
about love and marriage in general which were hard to 
shake; and that finding none of the volcanic agencies at 
work, he declined to believe in the dictates of his own 
heart. But at last the Staines affair came to a head, and 
the middle-aged justice came up with a nervous smile, and 
went away without it. Then Gerard spoke. 

Milly asked for time to think, and consulted his mother. 
“ I am not going to be married out of pity," she said with 


VALENTINE STEANGE. 


385 


spirit in the course of the colloquy; and then, with sudden 
tenderness, threw herself upon Mrs. Lumby's bosom, a 
gentle avalanche, and asked, could she make him happy? 
The mother was sure of it — had seen it for a long time. 
“ Speak to him of it," murmured Milly; “ and tell me 
what he says, and how he says it. ” 

* Mrs. Lumby promised, and kept her promise. “ I have 
been blind, ” said Gerard. “ I have loved her these two 
years past . 99 

That settled the matter; and the news of the result of 
the conference between mother and son being conveyed to 
Milly, she consented. They were married, and they lived 
in a calm blessedness and confidence in each other, endur- 
ing crosses and griefs and trials like other people. A year 
ago Gerardos father died, peacefully and happily, having 
lived to dandle an heir-male upon his knee, and to see a 
promise that the old house would be kept alive. The great 
firm prospers, and is higher in the world than ever; and 
Barnes still sits in the seat of Garling. Yal Strange meets 
his old friend and enemy at times, and after all there is on 
each side a softened and tender esteem. The two know 
each other's temptations, and that is a great matter. 
Where storm raged calm reigns. 

Good-bye, Yal. Good-bye, Gerard. Good-bye Hiram. 
You are not the only dream-children I have had by many, 
but I have loved none so well and have parted from none 
so sadly. You are going out into a cold world, my lads, 
and will find nobody to love you as your father did. 


THE END. 


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442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

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452 In the West Countrie. May 

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457 

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10 

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10 

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20 47 4 

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m 483 

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491 

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olO 

20 512 

504 

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10 509 

518 

20 519 

526 

10 

io 532 

10 536 

10 545 

20 540 

10 533 

Z 508 

20 571 

10 575 

lo 581 

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IO 583 

10 584 

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20 5 " 

20 612 

20 

614 

20 624 

10 

628 

20 

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By Charles Dickens 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay \ 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Dondney 20 

.680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 10 

681 A Singer’s Story. By May Laf- 

fan 10 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. B} r Mrs. J. Harcourt- 
Roe 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

685 England Under Gladstone. 1880 

—1885. By Justin H. McCarthy, 
M.P 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

688 A Man of Honor. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated . 10 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 

Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan.* 20 

694 John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half. . . 20 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half... 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. ~ By Anthony 

Trollope. 1st. half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 2d half 20 


The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
)e sent to any address, postage free, on 
nail will please order by numbers. Ad- 

E MfTNltO, 

FLUSHING HOUSE, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


P. O. Box 3751. 


NEW TABERNACLE SERMONS 


BY 


p t. Dewitt talmjige, d.d. 


Handsomely Bound in Cloth. 12mo. Price $1.00. 


The latest of Dr. Talmage’s sermons have not yet been pre- 
sented in book form. They have appeared weekly in The Newt 
York Fireside Companion, and are now 

Published for the First Time in Booh Form, 

THE PRICE OF WHICH IS WITHIN THE REACH OF ALL* 

Eacl Volie will Contain Thirty Serins, 

PRINTED IN 

CLEAR, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE, 

V 

AND WILL MAKE 

AN ELEGANT AND ACCEPTABLE HOLIDAY GlPt 

The above will be sent postpaid on receipt of price, $1.00. 
Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P.O. Box 3751. 17 to 37 Vandewnter Street. New Yorfc. 




JUST ISSUED. 


JUST ISSUED 


JOLIET CORSON’S 

NEW FAMILY COOK BOOK. 

BY MISS JULIET CORSON, 

Author of “ Meals for the Million,” etc., etc. 
Superintendent of the New York Schooi, of Cookery. 

PRICE: HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH, $1.00. 

A COMPLETE COOK BOOK 

r 3mily Use in City and Country. 

CONTAINING 

PRAC'i*. "GIPES AND FULL AND PLAIN DIREC- 
TION COOKING ALL DISHES USED 

L. '^RICAN HOUSEHOLDS. 

• \ 

The Best and Most Ecol, Hal Methods ol Cooking Meats, Fish, 
Vegetables, Sauces, Iliads, Puddings and Pies. 

Bow to Prepare Relishes and Savory Accessories, Picked-np Dishes? 
Soups, Seasoning, Stulling and Stews. 

Row to Make Good Bread, Biscuit, Omelets, Jellies, Jams, Pan* 
cakes, Fritters and Fillets. 


Miss Corson is the best American writer on cooking. All of her recipes 
have been carefully tested in the New York School of Cookery. If her direc- 
tions are carefully followed there will be no failures and no reason for com- 
plaint. Her directions are always plain, very complete, and easily followed. 

Juliet Corson’s New Family Cook Book 

Is sold by all newsdealers. It will be sent, postpaid, on receipt of price? 
handsomely bound in cloth, $1.00. Address 

GEORGE MITNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 

?. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Si., N. Y 



PEARS’ SOAP removes the irritability, redness 
and blotchy appearance of the skin from which many 
children suffer . It is unrivaled as a pure , delight - 
ful TOILET SOAP , and is for sale throughout the 
civilized world • 





The New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price 25 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price S3. 00 per Year. 


Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duchess,” 
author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, 
author of “Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House on the 
Marsh.” 


COMMENTS OF TIIE PRESS: 


The December number of the New 
York Fashion Bazar fully maintains 
the reputation gained by this period- 
ical as a fashion magazine. In addition 
to its fashion plates there are several 
pages of choice embroidery patterns, 
which the lady patrons of the Bazar 
will fully appreciate.— Union, Man- 
chester, N. H. ' 

The New York Fashion Bazar con- 
tains the latest styles for fall and win- 
ter costumes, also a pleasing variety 
in evening dress and millinery. Con- 
siderable space is devoted to fashion 
items, personal gossip, Christmas 
gifts, etc. The reading matter is ex- 
cellent.—^. John Telegraph. 

New York Fashion Bazar. This 
popular ladies’ magazine for Decem- 
ber is promptly at hand, and will be 
found an interesting and valuable 
number. As we have before stated, 
it is one of the most complete publica- 
tions of the kind published in this 
country. It contains seventy - two 
pages, fully illustrated, complete de- 
scriptions of the latest fashions, enter- 
rising stories and sketches, valuable 
ousehold hints, and much attractive 
miscellaneous reading. It is published 
by George Munro, New York, at $3.00 
per year. — Sunday Times , Portland, 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December, published by Geo. Munro, 
is well filled with winter fashion notes, 
plates, and designs, and contains also 
many pages of choice literature. — 
Toronto Globe. 

We have received from the publish- 
er, George /funro, of New York, the 
Fashion Bazar, one of the most com- 

f )lete fashion magazines we ever saw. 
t is published monthly, and is only 
$3.00 per year. It contains some sixty 
pages, and is profusely illustrated.— 
Argus , Evansville, Ind. 


The December number of The New 
York Fashion Bazar, is overflowing 
with information relative to the world 
of fashion in every department of 
dress, and its plates are numerous. 
The ladies will be delighted with this 
number, as the latest styles are por- 
trayed in a practical and interesting 
manner, and every direction for mak- 
ing, etc. There are stories, sketches 
and good reading besides.— Evening 
Standard , New Bedford, Mass. 

We have received a copy of The 
New York Bazar for December, pub- 
lished by George Munro, at New York 
City. Its plate® are as fine as any yet 
Dublished, and its descriptive matter 
is full and complete. Its price is 
twenty-five cents per copy or $3.00 per 
year. — Dakota Huronite. 

The New York Fashion Bazar, a 
monthly magazine of some seventy- 
five pages, has many attractive feat- 
ures. The December number, with 
its colored fashion plate supplement 
and profuse illustrations, is specially 
valuable. It- contains everything the 
ladies want to know about dress, be- 
side a variety of literary matter. — 
Gazette and Courier , Greenfield, Mass. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is 
very complete. The winter fashion 
plates, models of winter garments, 
cloaks, wraps, etc., furnish the ladies 
with a vast amount of valuable and 
timely information. The literary de- 
partment is also replete with good 
things. Published by George Munro, 
New York; price $3.00 a year.— Green- 
field Gazette and Courier. 

The Christmas number of George 
Munro’s New York Fashion Bazar, 
with its handsomely illustrated cover, 
is a feature of the season among the 
fashion periodicals. A pretty chromo 
accompanies this issue. — Toronto 
Globe. 


The New York Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
per copy. Subscription price $3.00 per year. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


THE CELEBRATED 



GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT 





ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER «fc CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count ot their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


FIRST PRIZE 

®IPL©MA. 

Centennial Exhibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 


The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



FROM THE 
NERVE -GIVING 
PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERM 
OF THE WHEAT 
AND OAT. 


NEW 

TABERNACLE SERMONS. 

Preached in the Brooklyn Tabernacle. 


BRAIN AND NERVE FOOD. 

CROSBY’S 

VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard with all Physicians who treat 
nervous or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuralgia and side headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exhaust- 
ion : regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


“ It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over-worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


“ I really urge you to put it to the test.”— 
Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY C0„ 56 W. 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. 


By Bey. T. DeWitt Talmage, 

12 mo. Handsomely Bound in Cloth $1.00. 


CONTENTS 


Brawn and Muscle. 
The Pleiades and Orion 
The Queen’s Visit. 
Vicarious Suffering. 
Posthumous Opportu- 
nity. 

The Lord’s Razor. 
Windows Toward Je- 
rusalem. 

Stormed and Taken. 
All the World Akin. 

A Momentous Quest. 
The Great Assize. 

The Road to the City. 
The Ransomless. 

The Three Groups. 


The Insignificant. 

The Three Rings. 

How He Came to Say 
It, 

Castle Jesus. 

Stripping the Slain. 
Sold Out. 

Summer Temptations. 
The Banished Queen. 
The Day We Live In. 
Capital and Labor. 
Tobacco and Opium. 
Despotism of the 
Needle. 

Why are Satan and Sin 
Permitted? 


The book will be forwarded, postage pre- 
paid, on receipt of price, $1.00. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. 0. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vnndewater St., N. Y. 




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